


Demiurge x Reader- Experiment 3069

by ApocalypticRomantic



Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Art, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Blindfolds, Deal with a Devil, Demon & Human Interactions, Demon/Human Relationships, Demon/Human Romance, Demon/Human Sex, Dominant/submissive relationship, Dream Demon, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Erotic Dreams, Exophilia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Human Experimentation, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Lemon, M/M, Male Slash, Master/Pet, Master/Servant, Medical Experimentation, Monster/Human Sex, Monsterfucking, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Repressed Memories, Romance, S&M, Scent Kink, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Trauma and recovery, archdevil, artwork inside, incubus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:48:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 66,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApocalypticRomantic/pseuds/ApocalypticRomantic
Summary: "To be blunt," His voice slithers the length of the table. "...it means I own you. You are bound to me, your Master; like a pet,"Your eyes blink rapidly as your brain stalls on that one word.'A PET?!'"...which, of course, means that you are mine to play with and stroke when I please." The demon declares, and something predatory and possessive kindles in his expression as he illuminates the fine print of what you have actually agreed to.Your body goes rigid as a board and your blood chills in your veins, tightening your skin with a prickling sensation as every hair stands on end. Time slows to a delirious crawl.Seriously, what were you thinking, agreeing to a deal with a Devil? You should have known that the bargain would weigh almost entirely in his favor.As your eyes widen, his narrow as he watches the truth seep in with rapt satisfaction and his lips skin back into an insidious grin."Now, be a good girl," Demiurge slowly reclines back, adopting a pose which looks like a summons- chest open and legs stretched wide. The Devil's gaze simmers as he speaks slowly, giving each word its due. "...and come- sit on my lap."
Relationships: Demiurge (Overlord - Maruyama Kugane) & Original Female Character(s), Demiurge (Overlord - Maruyama Kugane)/Original Female Character(s), Demiurge (Overlord - Maruyama Kugane)/Original Male Character(s), Demiurge (Overlord - Maruyama Kugane)/Reader, Demiurge x Reader, Ulbert Alain Odle & Original Female Characters, Ulbert Alain Odle/Original Female Character(s), Ulbert Alain Odle/Reader
Comments: 179
Kudos: 153





	1. Prologue: Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of rewrite of my original fic. I'm trying it out from Demiurge/Reader this time, and changing/adding new content. It will have a darker feel, and I think you will all like where this is going.

Your body is a cage for a soul he cannot touch. His crystalline eyes shimmer with a mesmerizing iridescence from behind his spectacles as he stares down at you with all of the heated appraisal of a hunter who has snared a silver vixen within his trap.

The torches nestled in the sconces along the stony wall paint the Devil's visage in flickering gold and shadow. His nostrils flare as he drinks in your fear, and his tongue sweeps over his fangs before his lips peel back into a sinister grin to reveal rows of wolfish teeth. You fight to keep your own lip from curling as hot animosity whips through your veins like lightning- but you keep your rage in check. He does not stand for insubordination.

That's what landed you here in the first place.

Your frustration, your struggle, your seemingly inextinguishable flame of resistance thrills him to no end. You have yet to shatter for him, and as much as it infuriates him, you can also see that it poses a not only a problem, but a puzzle, a complex equation for him to solve.

_A challenge._

The scientist in him preens with curiosity at this aberration in nature that he has discovered; a unique specimen he can experiment with- to dissect and pick apart, and locate every little secret mechanism, to map where all of your gears fit together so he can learn what exactly makes you tick... and what he can subtract to break you.

And now, he has you right where he wants you. You glare back at him, your determination a dulling glint in your gaze, but then you yield and shutter your eyes. You can never meet his own for too long. His white-hot stare is piercing enough to melt you to the bone.

You refuse to break, but you cannot deny that he is gradually wearing you down, little by little. Here in the basement at his ranch, he determines when you eat, when you drink, and how much. You are completely dependent on his mercy.

At least he has taken the collar and chain off of you.

For _now._

But he only trades one method of restraint for another; you are shackled to a St. Andrew's cross, where he then proceeds to poke, prod and examine you as though you are merely an insect beneath his microscope. This is his process- he tries to reach, to twist his claws down into that one hidden place, deep inside, that part of you which he hasn't quite yet been able to grasp and crush, to _kill_.

The demon turns away from you to tinker with the array of tools on his steel tray, and you watch with mounting anxiety as he expertly draws a mysterious liquid from a small glass vial into a syringe. The rapid flow of the substance floods into the barrel to swirl in a shimmering whirlpool of amethyst, and then he halts the draw and allows it to settle. His brow knits as he gauges the dosage with utmost scrutiny. A clawed thumb pushes the plunger with calculated pressure, and you see a small spritz burst from the bevel of the needle.

The demon's movements are the definition of flawless and precise- it unnerves you to wonder how many times he must have done this before to develop such meticulous muscle memory.

While you may not know exactly how many injections have been administered by his hand, you do know how many have _died_.

3,068.

You are subject 3,069.

You did have a name, and barely a week ago. He stripped that away from you too, along with your clothes and your dignity. This leaves you as nothing but a number. _Livestock_.

You will get your name back "when you earn it." Or so he says.

That is, if either he or dehydration doesn't kill you first.

Your tongue sticks to your palate; you peel it off and roll your lips. You've had an excruciating case of cotton mouth for the past two days. The bastard is only giving you enough water to keep you alive.

You are so _fucking_ thirsty.

Your attention is drawn like a magnet to the ornate golden goblet on his work table, an oasis that he has temptingly placed within your line of sight, but cruelly just out of reach; a honeyed promise as to what you can have if you obey... or maybe he just keeps it there to get your hopes up and make you more compliant.

You do not know for a fact that there is water in it. But you sure as Hell hope so.

He carefully taps the body of the instrument, snapping your focus back to him, and he turns on his heel to face you once more. You look away and nail your gaze to the wall, an endeavor to not to center your attention on the menacing instrument. However, your eyes instantly swing back to it as if it is out of your control. To say that you are not a fan of needles is a massive understatement.

He granted you a tiny bit of reprieve when he introduced a blindfold to the process a few days ago. You hope that he will be merciful and use it again.

A shiver wracks your body, from both fear and the icy chill in the air.

Your gaze flickers back to his, and you do not miss how it has darkened. The shroud in his eyes boasts challenge; he wants for the fire in your own to dim, for you to submit. He awaits the day that they once again burn with the knowledge of your inferiority, an admittance to how weak you are compared to him.

He reaches for the dark cloth draped on the corner of the table, and you breathe a small sigh of relief.

The demon places the syringe in his teeth and carefully threads his gloved fingers through the thick mane of hair at the back of your scalp, tilting your head forward so he can wrap the blindfold around your face. The graze of his claws sting like the pricks of needles as they threateningly brush over the skin when his hands pull away- you are cautious not to struggle. They are razor sharp, and easily snag on flesh.

The blindfold casts stifling darkness and obscures your prison, although you can see it all too clearly in your mind's eye. Your arms tingle with pins and needles as they are uncomfortably stretched overhead, clasped tightly in cold steel manacles on each of your wrists. The chains rattle and clang with your movements. You're so damned uncomfortable.

"Stop moving, 3069." You heard him growl, addressing you by your subject number.

 _'Fuck you.'_ You huff inwardly.

You obeyed- this time. The last time you had struggled, he punished you by not only starting the process over, but gagging you as well, to add insult to injury. If he gagged you again, you would lose what little moisture was left in your mouth.

You have precious little time to prepare yourself when you feel his fingers splay over the skin to tighten it, just before he aims for your vein. The instrument's snakebite makes your face go numb and goosebumps break out all over your skin. Your veins catch fire as the potion spills into your bloodstream, and you hiss through your teeth.

It burns like Hell every time.

You feel the needle slide out, and his thumb press over the wound. He applies pressure until he is sure none of the potion will leak out.

The minutes stretch on endlessly, trickling by at a snail's pace. Your tongue flicks out to run along tender, cracked flesh of your lower lip.

You desperately want water. You swallow thickly, and your throat sticks to itself. Your tongue gnaws at the roof of your parched mouth, a futile attempt to stimulate salivation, and the thick roughness of your taste buds only increase until it is unbearable, until you simply can't stand it any longer.

"C-can I please have some w-water, Master?" Your voice scrapes out in a gravelly rasp. Every swallow is like crushed glass down your throat and your eyes water with the effort. But this one hurt worse of all- because with the sensation of shards splintering into your esophagus, you also swallow what little pride you have left.

 _"If_ you are compliant, then perhaps." The demon says with a weary sigh.

You need water. Badly. You would be good if he would only give you some scrap of hope that he'd hold up his end of the bargain, and let you have some. But after everything he has put you through, you do not trust him as far as you can throw him.

 _'I won't let you break me.'_ Your defiant streak growls, but whether you are trying to convince yourself, or him at this point, you cannot be sure anymore.

As angry as you are, you can no long ignore that you are growing weaker by the day, your resolve slowly crumbling like sand.

Pride isn't worth jack shit if you are dead.

You do your best to tune him out as he shuffles around and clinks the bottles of potions. Your mind skips and wanders; you wonder if it is light or dark outside, and what Tuare may be doing in Nazarick. She really is the only one who would notice, much less care that you are missing. The sudden press of his glove's soft leather and a light sting of his claws on your throat causes you to flinch, but then still when you realize he is not hurting you, but merely taking your pulse.

"Heart rate is 108 beats per minute. Slightly elevated due to both the potion and stress," He mutters, "but lower than yesterday. It would seem the blindfold is effective in reducing situational stress and obtaining more accurate readings."

Good. Maybe that means he will keep using it. But you don't want to think about what the potion is, or why it is raising your heart rate. You don't have much medical knowledge, but you are relatively sure that a high heart rate is not a good side-effect.

"The Median Cubital vein is less pronounced today due to dehydration." The Devil also notes, and it pisses you off that he does not give any indication of wanting to rectify that.

"The concoction seems to be having the desired effect, but not quickly enough for my liking. Next time I will increase the dosage and hope it yields more promising results." He adds, and you hear his quill pen rapidly scratching over the surface of the parchment he takes his notes on.

What the Hell is he giving you?

 _'Don't think about it. Just...just don't think about it.'_ You try to distract yourself.

You imagine you are warm in your bed in Nazarick, wrapped in a fluffy blanket and nibbling on Pestonya's pastries, and washing them down with a cup of water- not naked, freezing and dehydrated. If you had only behaved, maybe that is where you would be right now.

Gods, you're so tired, and the cold makes you even drowsier. Your body feels stretched thin and drained, and your head feels too heavy. It lolls to the side as you drift into a light sleep.

You dream of water, of summer rain kissing your skin. Fat droplets of condensation rolling tantalizingly down the slick edge of crystal.

"That wasn't so difficult, now was it?" The demon chides, and you jolt awake when he slips the blindfold off of you.

You are so utterly exhausted that you must have dozed off. It is the only reason you were still for him.

You blink several times, the fuzzy veil of sleep slipping away, and you feel something warm trickling over your arm. A quick glance to the left reveals a stripe of ruby racing down your bicep. He must have given you a second injection in your other arm.

He turns towards the table and when he faces you again, he cradles the golden, jewel encrusted goblet in his palm.

 _'Water! Oh gods, please...please be water.'_ Your fists clench with restraint. You want to jump for it, but fear that if you make any sudden movements, he may retract his generosity.

He slowly brings it to your lips, and you cannot help but momentarily hesitate- what if he had laced it with something? It would not be the first time he has drugged you.

"Drink." He says, his voice taking on the sharp edge of command, and he tips it further until you feel the refreshing splash of liquid against your lips. "This is an exercise in trust, is it not?"

_'Are you fucking kidding me? How can I ever trust a Devil?'_

Still, you obey, deciding it no longer mattered, as he has already injected you with some foreign substance that does who-the-Hell-knows-what. You unseal your lips and swallow, and your blood sings with relief at the taste of clean water soaking your tongue and soothing your throat.

_'He did it. He actually gave me water.'_

It's so good that you want to cry.

He kept his word. Does this mean you need only obey and he will-

He suddenly pulls the cup away from your greedy lips, and you try to swallow what was in your mouth as quickly as possible.

 _'No!'_ You whine at the loss when a bit escapes and dribbles down to drip onto the stony floor.

His clawed finger sweeps its way up your chin, gathering the stray droplets and holds it out to you. You are so unbearably thirsty that you instinctively lunge for it, but your shackles hold fast and keep you detained.

Fuck pride. You need it. You fucking _NEED_ it.

"Please?" You whimper, and you feel a tiny bit of your resolve, your dignity crack at how pathetic you sound. His chest expands with a sharp inhale.

_"Please, Master?"_

Oh, how he _loves_ to hear you beg.

Mirth and fire dances in his eyes, glittering like molten gold as embers reflect off the dozens of facets and the corner of his mouth curls upward in a cavalier smirk.

Gods, he really is devastatingly attractive.

You remind yourself that this is largely what makes him the perfect predator that he is. The skin he wears is beautiful, alluring; it is impossible not to admire the striking intricacy of the velvety stripes on a tiger, but you must never forget that he has fangs; that he _bites_.

_And he is always hungry._

His pinstriped suit glows like flame in the torchlight of the dungeon, and his steel-plated tail waves to and fro with sadistic satisfaction.

Yes, a tiger. A tiger suits him well.

"Yes. You have permission."

As soon as the last syllable leaves his mouth, your tongue lashes out and manages to steal the beads of moisture off his finger, just before they roll down his palm and away. You give the digit a desperate, firm suck to ensure you get every last drop.

A pleased growl rumbles through his chest, and he reaches out to sweep his other hand over the curve of your hip. The sweet heat of his touch melts into your skin and the sharp of his claws make you tense and tremble; through his gloved palm you feel his entire body thrum with barely leashed hunger and restraint. You recognize it as that same primal, untamed desire that rears its head inside you, the familiar dark... _something_ that you have yet to fully come to terms with. You can feel it as it uncoils, low and dark and deep in the pit of your belly.

Whatever it is, it draws a breathy, soft moan from your lungs, and you cannot resist arching into his touch as much as your bonds will allow.

"That's a good girl." His grin stretches to show his wetly glinting fangs, sending wicked excitement slithering up your spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/apocalypticromantic666)  
> [My Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/jaldabaoth666)
> 
> My other stories:
> 
> [Overlord Kinktober! Okay, I know October is nearly over, but who cares? I'll be adding to this anyways. 😂 Because no one complains about better-late-than-never smut.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056608/chapters/66058684)
> 
> [Let Me Serve You, an Ainz/Demiurge fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995411/chapters/57721879)
> 
> [Outcasts, a crossover fic centering around my character Malphas, and Ceresoktavia's character Marlianken. Much softer but just as smutty.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615047/chapters/56671906)
> 
> 💖💖💖 Thank you for your reviews and kudos! They are much appreciated. 💖💖💖


	2. Freedom

* * *

_*****Nearly two months ago***** _

Your memory is a shattered mirror- broken into so many tiny fragments that it is almost impossible to put any two pieces together to form a whole.

How did you end up here?

You can't remember. You do, however, recall a beating so brutal that you blacked out from the pain. The client who is responsible carries a sickening sense of dread wherever he goes, and leaves ugly black stains on whatever, _WHOEVER_ , he touches. He is the definition of toxic.

And he visits every week.

No one wants to be chosen. No one deserves to be his pick.

But you?

You have become his favorite, as of late. But such is typical for your luck of the draw.

The door to your room, no, your _prison_ , slams open; he always has to make a violent entrance- a precursor to the agony that is sure to follow, and a golden halo spills around the silhouette of his morbidly obese which damn near blocks the doorway; but this is no angel. He is your own personal devil.

Why does it _always_ have to be him?

You have learned a long time ago to stop begging. To stop crying. To forget pleading with him to stop. He is unfeeling. You may as well be trying to reason with stone, with that which has no emotion or feeling whatsoever.

You can only wait for it to be over.

You take a shuddering breath and wonder how long you can stay conscious this time as he takes what he wants, and breaks you again.

He is absolutely merciless. He has struck you before, but on this night, he seems particularly enraged, and as soon as he has you behind closed doors, he viciously unleashes all his fury. A hard, open-palmed slap sends you reeling back against the wall, and before you can recover from it, he punches you as violently as possible in the nose, tearing a broken scream from your throat. Your eyes water and your ears ring, making the world around you go silent; you can hear the hollow drum of blood pulsing in your head, and his muffled laugh of cruelty as you sputter blood.

It is hard to see much, but you can think, despite the pounding pain. You use your other senses; touch and hearing, to take note of your surroundings in the brief precious moments before he determines where he wants to strike you next. Maybe you can crawl into the closet and close the-

He kicks you in the ribs with enough force to crush the air from your lungs, and you both hear and feel the audible crack of splintering bone.

Your mouth drops open in a wheezing gasp. Fuck, it hurts so bad. It hurts to breathe.

_'Fuck you. You fucking piece of shit. One day I'll get out of here, I'll find you and shatter every bone in your body.'_

The thought gives you a tiny shred of hope to cling to. It hooks in with a claw of determination and you repeat it over and over in your head like a mantra.

Festering hatred. The idea of revenge. It's kept you alive thus far. You will survive, if nothing else, for the sake of sheer spite.

In addition to a broken rib and a badly swollen and bruised face, there is an ache throbbing angrily between your legs from the last client who tore you. Your left eye burns as it rapidly swells almost completely shut, and you barely manage to see through a narrow slit. A sharper sting where your lip has split open adds insult to injury. But you remind yourself that you will feel numb soon enough; as long as you can hang on to your life, as long as you keep breathing. Once he is done, they will shoot you up with your angel of mercy, a powerful dose of morphine so you can handle the next monster they unleash upon you.

_If_ you survive this one.

Your vision grows dim and blurry with tears, but you can still make out his face twisting into a sadistic grin of sick satisfaction. You have learned to both fear and hate that fat, smug face more than anyone's. You will give anything to dig your nails into his greasy, disgusting flesh and rip with all the hatred you possess.

How you want to hear him _scream_. To watch his face pale and see terror bloom in his eyes.

You have imagined countless scenarios and fantasized how you want to kill him. How you want to _torture_ him.

Something cold and black has been growing inside you, an ebony, polished seed of darkness that leaves ugly stains your soul. It gleams a little brighter and bleeds a little more poison into your bloodstream with each encounter.

Another hard blow to the head. Vertigo twists your balance in several different directions at once. You hit something cold and solid; the floor. Coppery blood floods your mouth and soaks your tongue. You feel a dizzying wave of nausea, but fight it tooth and nail. If you throw up what was in your stomach, you will lose what little nutrition you have been given, and it may be another 24 hours (if you're lucky) before you eat again. You do not have scheduled meals; you eat when they remember to feed you and the other slaves. You push your hands shakily against the ground as you try to drag yourself as far away from him as possible. An additional brutal strike, and you drift in and out darkness.

_'I hope to die this time. Please just let me fucking die.'_

It is like this every single week. He beats the Hell out of you until he is satisfied that you have screamed and bled enough, and then he uses you raw. The only reason you have suddenly become his girl of choice is because his last favorite was thrown into the street just a few weeks ago, presumably dead.

You did not doubt that you were next.

_'Escape. Escape. Escape.'_ This is your other lifeline. Retreating into the recesses of your mind. Memory. Dreams.

You have one precious, intact memory that you cling to for times like this; you are back at home, tending the garden with who you believe to be either your mother, or maybe an older sister, and are enjoying the birdsong and warmth of springtime. The stone path is punctuated with patches of plush clover after every rock. Clusters of defiant daffodils rear their golden heads, proud and bright, and there were spatters of fuchsia alongside the tulips whose petals were a blazing mix of red and canary yellow.

You both work hard to keep it so beautiful.

You try to remember what the touch of sunshine feels like, what fresh air smells like. You dream of the taste of strawberry tea, of the satisfying chill of the liquid running down the back of your throat.

With a glance back at the spatters of fuchsia, your favorite, and you notice that they glisten as if drenched in dew. But...you do not remember them having such a deep red hue. You reach down to touch them, and they smear wetly over your fingertips. Your heart drops into your stomach. They are no longer flowers.

_Blood_.

It is all you can taste and smell now.

Your rage roils, towering and corrosive and hot. Everything has been taken from you. And now, this bastard has even found a way to taint, to _DEFILE_ your memories.

You hear a loud thud that shakes the floor; something huge and heavy crashes in front of you. You jolt with a start, bringing you back to yourself. It thrashes and bellows, and you realize it is the client. Had he landed on you he would have broken several of your bones, if not crushed you to death.

_'Did he trip? Or have a heart attack?'_

You don't give two shits what the circumstances are. Now is your chance. You snarl with all the fury of a feral animal fighting its way out of a corner, and fling out your right hand, curling your fingers into claws and you rake downward over what you hope to be his eyes with every ounce of strength you have. You bare your teeth with dark malice as you feel warm moisture bloom under your fingertips, and his flesh gathers under your nails. A tiny spark of victory trickles into your veins when an agonized scream reaches your ears.

_'I made that fucker bleed!'_

A roar tears through your snarled jaws, a guttural and visceral sound and you rip at him and fumble in the darkness with a wild desperation, hungry to feel more of his flesh rend under your claws.

Your blood turns, like the filth at the bottom of a lake being stirred to muddy the waters of your spirit.

_'I'll rip you apart and paint the walls with your blood!'_

"Please, calm...self... It's all right...my protec..."

There is a voice cutting through the buttery thickness of the smell of blood and tears and chaos, but with your ears ringing and blood thrumming in your head, his words are broken sounds you cannot fully translate, but his tone is calming and is the first male voice you have ever heard that spoke tenderly and with kindness. It somewhat dampens the blistering ire charging through your veins, and you feel gloved hands gently tug under your ribs as you are slowly pulled away from your abuser.

"Shhh... you're safe."

_'No, I'm not done with that fucker! Not until I-'_ The grossly overweight client is tossed aside out of your reach effortlessly, as though he is no heavier than a sack of cotton; your defender is inhumanly strong and had the monster not been stopped, he surely would have clubbed you to death with his fists.

Through your watery vision, you can vaguely make out that there is a dark shape towering over you, but it was much thinner than your assailant.

Whoever this is, he saved you. You decide will not fight whatever follows next. You are too tired; your body is shutting down, and you feel yourself break out into a cold sweat. You begin to tremble uncontrollably as you rapidly descend into shock.

_'I...I can't see...'_ The peripheral of your eye that wasn't swollen shut darkens.

You hear the distorted warble of raised voices as you sink and resurface in the inky black sea of unconsciousness, and you feel as though you are floating. Your savior lifts you into the air and holds you securely in strong, warm arms. He smells of button shiner, petrichor and amber. It is comforting, and it reminds you of the garden after spring rain. Your head rolls limply and your arms hang loosely at your sides as he carries you into the night.

Before that, you remember nothing.

Phantom voices come and go, skipping like stones over the black lake of your consciousness as you fade in and out of coherency.

"...wounds are severe, the potions...only do so m-"

"She'll live. I've made su-"

"Do not repair ... memory...Do what...must with the rest, but I expect a blank slate."

"But Se-...said to...

"I do not care what... sa-...to do. You will..."

"Yes, Lor-"

The sun glares bright and beautiful overhead. The garden sparkles, glittery and wet with morning dew. You are gathering berries, your fingers carefully plucking the little clusters of black pearls from between the thorns arming the wiry stems. Your digits quickly stain with a deep purple, and you pause occasionally to lick the sweet but tart juices off. The wicker basket on your arm grows pleasantly heavy, and quickly; this year yields a bountiful crop. You hope to make jams and pies with them to sell.

It's a lovely day. The meadowlarks call to one another and butterflies swim through the air, their wings like little fragments of stained glass. You watch one flutter by, charmed by the sweet serenade of the creamy yellow blossoms decorating the vines of honey suckle that have grown to stretch and weave around the rough wooden gate. Her delicate little feet land on the silky petals and her proboscis unfurls to gather nectar.

This is your favorite time of year. It's bathes you in golden warmth and everything all around thrums, bright and colorful with new life.

Your fingers are slippery, causing you to drop a berry- it rolls in a circle within an impression stamped into the damp earth. You bend at the waist to pick it up, and... your brow knits.

The impression it has landed in... it is natural, and yet, it is not. It is an animal track of some sort, but it is massive, and unlike anything you have ever seen. The pad of its paw spans larger than the breadth of your palm, and it is crowned by four rounded toes.

You have seen many creature tracks in your lifetime, but none quite like this. This...

This belongs to a colossal predator.

A man-eater.

The wooden splinter of a twig snap cracks from the treeline behind you. Eyes burn into your back. Your heart plummets.

* * *

You gasp and stir lightly, awakening to feel something soft and plush beneath you. Your fingers curl into it and you unconsciously press your nose in. It smells fresh and of clean linen; it isn't musty like your old pallet of a bed, which was composed of scratchy old blankets. As you come to life, you realize you are in an unfamiliar bed with new sheets, something you have not seen or felt in ages.

_'Where am I?'_

You shift and feel a fluffy pillow under your face. A pillow! You have not had such a thing since... Hell, you cannot even remember. You nuzzle into the item of luxury and doze off and on, drifting in and out of dreamless grogginess. You become dimly aware of the low tones of voices in the room and muted clattering from a nearby presence. Other than that, it is eerily quiet. This place is absent of the usual screams of pain and groans of the brothel you were enslaved in.

Someone is here. But where 'here' is, you don't know.

You are afraid to awaken fully and see who you belong to now.

Whether twenty minutes or twenty-four hours have passed, you cannot be sure. But when the weight of someone settles next to you on the bed, and you can no longer ignore what is happening around you.

Instinctively, you cringe, waiting to be slapped awake.

Nothing happens.

Hesitantly, you crack open your eyes, to slowly and cautiously peek at who invades your space. You let out a breath you don't even realize you are holding as your bleary gaze sketches out that it is a female, around your age, give or take a few years. Relief immediately washes over you.

The girl is kind faced, with golden hair and is finely dressed as a maid.

She is holding a steaming bowl of food on a tray and she timidly watches you from her peripheral. There is a shadow, a shroud haunting just behind the blue of her eyes. You recognize it.

You have seen it in the mirror, in your own reflection. It is shallowly buried hatred. Pain. Fear. The wariness of prey that has narrowly escaped being devoured, and still bears the scars.

_'They hurt you too.'_

"Is it alright if I look at you?" The maid whispers.

You slowly nod. To anyone else this may pose as a strange question, but you know all too well what it means. You and the other brothel workers had been trained not to make eye contact with the clients unless it is demanded of you. To do so without permission could result in a slap or worse. This maid must have, at some point, been in the same position you were just freed from.

You look back at her, meeting her cerulean eyes and an inkling of familiarity in the back of your mind prickles to suggest that you know her somehow.

"I'm glad you pulled through. Are you hungry?" The maid asks. She holds out a bite of stew on a spoon to you and you nod again, and open your mouth in robotic obedience. If you don't eat when told, it may be days before you taste anything but blood or bodily fluids on your tongue.

The seasoned meat, buttery potatoes and robust juices taste so good that you want to cry. You did not have the privilege of eating cooked food at the brothel. You were fed bread and dried meat to keep you as thin and weak as possible. To keep you from fighting back. You swallow it with effort, as your throat is still bruised from nearly being strangled to death a week ago.

"Th-thank you." Was all that left your mouth before you feel your sinuses swell and sting with an oncoming wave of tears. You break down and sob uncontrollably. The maid slowly wraps her arms around you, taking care not to startle you in your state of fragility. She holds you, and to your surprise, cries with you.

* * *

_I'm pleased to introduce a new segment I like to call: NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend White Lamb, by FactionZero. <https://archiveofourown.org/works/26051626/chapters/63356413>

Summary:

_Ulma Alain Odle has always thought of Nazarick as her true home and when it all becomes much too real she is more than happy to embrace everything it has to offer._

_Power, respect, riches and even love. With her brother's legacy and Momonga's support, the crown princess of Nazarick will take everything from this world, even the stars._

_It's a lovely fic, and I think all of you Demiurge lovers will absolutely adore it. :3_

_Below is a drawing of Ulma. ♥_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/apocalypticromantic666)  
> [My Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/jaldabaoth666)
> 
> My other stories:
> 
> [Overlord Kinktober! Okay, I know October is nearly over, but who cares? I'll be adding to this anyways. 😂 Because no one complains about better-late-than-never smut.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056608/chapters/66058684)
> 
> [Let Me Serve You, an Ainz/Demiurge fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995411/chapters/57721879)
> 
> [ Experiment 3069, a Demiurge/Reader fic. Dark and smutty, a rewrite of The Devil's Plaything.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904596/chapters/62954236)
> 
> 💖💖💖 Thank you for your reviews and kudos! They are much appreciated. 💖💖💖


	3. Recovery

Over the next two weeks, the maid attentively tends to your wounds and you cannot shake the feeling that she seems distantly familiar.

"I feel like I kn-know you..." You contemplate, and her face lights up with a smile as bright as the sun, and her eyes sparkle like sunlight over the surface of a lake.

"You remember! Yes, I... I was there too." Her expression dims a bit at the reminder, and you cannot help but feel guilty for inadvertently dredging up what she would no doubt prefer to bury. "I mean...I was rescued not too long ago myself."

Your eyes roam her features, and a loose thread of memory weaves into place.

The last you had seen of her, she was being hauled out and tossed into the street like trash, believed to be dead.

That son of a bitch had nearly killed her too. You hope to everything sacred that your savior bashed his fucking brains in, because who knows how many have died by his hand?

"W-who saved you? And m-me?" You ask, and are told that Sebas, the Butler of Nazarick, has valiantly rescued you both. The recollection you have of someone stopping your assailant is foggy at best, and you unfortunately do not even remember his face.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you don't remember much of ANYTHING.

"Can you tell me your name?" Tuare presses, and you open your mouth to reply, but your mind fumbles for the answer, only to come up empty. And then it dawns on you... _you don't know._

You do not know your own name.

"Um... I-I don't rem-member." You shakily reply. Your speech is still a bit broken from sustained brain damage.

Tuare gives you a low-tier potion that you drink with your food each day, and with it, your recovery is faster than it would be without it.

But still, it is excruciatingly slow.

When you were trying to sleep yesterday, you overheard Tuare meekly ask someone for something a bit stronger, and the bitch snidely remarked "For yet another human? No- I don't think so."

You cracked your eyes open to peer at her, and woman looked human herself. She wore her hair in blond ringlets and her somewhat scandalous outfit reminds you of something you would be forced to wear to serve some of the seedier clients.

What the Hell was her problem?

"That's ok," Tuare sympathizes, and carefully wraps a clean bandage around your head. "You will, with time, I think."

"Wh-where are we?" You ask her.

"We're in the Great Tomb of Nazarick." She replies, and uses a pair of scissors to cut the excess length of the bandage after tying it off.

Where is Nazarick? You glance around for anything which may indicate what region or continent Nazarick is on. Quiet luxury permeates everything around you, from the thick carpet below to the heavy, scarlet velvet drapes pulled back to expose the morning sky. This place doesn't look like the typical doom and gloom of a Tomb. The complete opposite, in fact.

Does she have head trauma too?

The confusion must be written all over you face, because Tuare giggles. "I thought the same thing. It does not look much like a Tomb, does it?"

"No, it-d-doesn't."

Tuare goes on to explain that The Great Underground Tomb is actually a ten Floor dungeon, and each Floor has its own unique theme. The First to Third Floors are modeled after a catacomb-like tomb, and are the only ones which look like an actual tomb. The Fourth Floor is an underground lake. The Fifth Floor is a frozen glacier. The Sixth Floor is a rain forest. The Seventh Floor is a mainly volcanic landscape complete with a sea of magma, save for the occupant's personal quarters where he does paperwork and Defense management. The Eighth Floor is a wasteland. And the Ninth and Tenth Floors are the realm of the gods; in other words, the home base of Ainz Ooal Gown. Each Floor is run and protected by a Guardian, an inhuman being of great power.

You are stunned. Only knights from the guilds who occasionally dropped in at the brothel spoke of places like this; you honestly thought most of what they said was bullshit anyways.

"Lord Ainz, the ruler of Nazarick, will be deciding what to do with you. I really hope he lets you stay!" Tuare says with a hopeful smile, and your heart skips.

_'What else would he do with me? If he doesn't decide to let me stay?'_

"Sh-shit, me too. I d-don't have anywhere to go." You bleakly admit and run a hand through your hair.

_'I don't even know where home is.'_

"He may look really scary, but he did grant me protection under his name, and safety here." Tuare reassures you. "I'm sure he'll do the same for you!"

"How did you m-manage th-that?" You ask.

Damn it, your stutter was starting to irritate the shit out of you.

"Sebas vouched for me. If it wasn't for him, they may have wiped my memory and released me in a nearby town... although one of the Guardians did suggest killing me outright." She says with a nervous swallow, and your heart drops hard into your stomach.

"But I didn't want to be placed anywhere else." Tuare continues. "What if I was recognized and recaptured? And Sebas...I owe him my life. Because of him, I have a home, and a decent and rewarding job. I only feel safe if I am with him."

You put that piece of information in your back pocket for later and pray you can also depend on Sebas. He had saved you, after all, so you hope he also intends to protect you here in the Tomb as well.

* * *

Another week passes. When you recover enough to be able to stand and walk, and the worst of your wounds heal, you ask Tuare if it is possible for you to bathe.

While you had been given a gentle sponge bath shortly after your rescue to clean up the blood, and your bed sheets are crisp and clean, you still feel filthy- and damn it all, you think you can _still_ smell that disgusting pig on you.

Tuare agrees and guides you to the bathroom. It's marvelous, with huge slabs of white marble, veined in silver and gold, and when you are shown the shower it dawns on you that you have no idea how to work the knobs of the faucet. The bath at the brothel was always already drawn for you. You stare dumbly at the silver knobs until Tuare realizes what is wrong.

"It's okay, I didn't know how to either until Sebas showed me." Tuare says, before she rotates them both and like magic, water rains down into the pristine tiled enclosure. She tests the water temperature with her hand, and when she deems it warm enough, she assures you that you can take your time and she will wait for you outside.

You hastily peel off your clothes and step in. And when you feel the hot water cascade down over your skin, you are halfway convinced you have somehow died along the way to the bathroom and gone to heaven. At the brothel you were allowed supervised baths, but it always felt so... dirty, to have to soak in a tub of your own and a stranger's filth to try to get clean. But _this_... this was an experience like no other. The running water allows you to feel like the grime and fingerprints are completely erased and rinsed away, and you are truly _cleansed._

You dawdle, thoroughly enjoying yourself under the decadence of the shower head. The guava and strawberry shampoo and conditioner are so creamy and delicious-smelling you are almost tempted to taste them.

You honestly don't know how long you have been roughly scrubbing at your skin, but once you are pink and almost raw, you decide it is enough. Your feet ache in protest before you are finally satisfied that you have succeeded in scraping and washing away the outer layer of flesh that has been violated by dozens of strangers. When you step out, you wrap a luxuriously fluffy towel around your torso and dare to steal a glimpse at yourself in the mirror.

You saw yourself in the mirror, once, and while do not remember when exactly, you would surmise it was not long ago. And it had shaken you to your very core, how little you recognized yourself. Your eyes were hollowed pits, with dark circles of purple gathering like storm clouds beneath them and your face was dappled with bruises. Your lips were pale, your cheeks sunken, and your flesh an ashen complexion. What had stared back at you... was a hollow-eyed doll. A broken, wretched shell of your former self.

You knew then it would not be long before you were deemed as "used up" and thrown away, like the other girl had been. You stopped looking at your reflection after that. You no longer wanted to be reminded of just how few grains of sand were left in your hourglass.

But your reflection is different now. It has changed, and for the better. While the ghosts of bruises on your face, arms, ribs and legs still linger, they are fading, and considerably. You have begun to gain a little weight now that you are eating regularly, making your cheeks fuller and you finally had the strength to stand on your own. Your eyes are no longer hopeless and hollow. The bags beneath them have, for the most part, disappeared. And they are blue- you have forgotten that they are cobalt blue, like Tuare's. Your lips have regained their rose petal hue, and had also plumped. While your skin is still pale, now it boasts a glow of recovering health. Your hair was no longer lackluster and limp, either. It has body to it, once again forming loose waves and reclaiming its golden sheen.

_'Maybe... maybe I'll be okay.'_

Feeling like a new woman, you take Tuare up on her offer to show you where she works in the Tomb. You are eager make a good impression and to prove your worth in order to convince Lord Ainz you can be made of use.

Tuare is kind enough to lend you a spare maid's dress so you can at least look the part.

"I'm sorry it's a little small, but as soon as I can I'll have one made for you in your size." She promises as she passes you a pair of heels. "But it still looks great on you! You're going to fit right in with the rest of us."

Tuare finishes lacing up the corset backing for you, and you give your uniform a final once-over in the full-length mirror, making sure the micro-skirt isn't tucked into your underwear and that the seam running up the back of each thigh-high stocking is symmetrical. You adjust the low-cut cleavage of your uniform, ensuring you won't fall out if you bend over for one thing or another. You are a little leggier than Tuare, so the black dress falls just barely mid-thigh and is accentuated with ivory trim, with a full puffy skirt beneath. It also has a white half-apron, with pockets included for a notepad to take orders for the kitchen and restocking supplies. Your outfit is completed by pair of strappy, black six-inch heels made of buttery-soft leather.

Tuare hands you a feather duster and a folded dust rag.

With real clothes, you feel a little more human, and less like an animal in a cage. You have not worn something nice like this since...you still cannot remember, but you want to say ever? If you had, it must have been before you were enslaved to the brothel, your personal prison; there, you were always nearly naked (if not completely), and vulnerable. You love it, the way the fabric covers you, the illusion of protection, of safety it gives you. Your sinuses begin to sting as you choke back tears of joy.

"I felt the same way when Sebas gave me my first uniform too." Tuare says quietly, noticing the flood of emotion overwhelming you. "I never thought I would wear anything so soft before he took me in."

"It's...so elegant." You murmur in awe. "If it wasn't for a meant for a maid, I would feel like royalty."

Your stutter was finally gone. But your memory in still dust in the wind.

"I thought the same thing. I had never touched silk in my life. " Tuare replies.

You sniffle and shove your tears down into that dark place inside you with a hard swallow. You can cry later. Now you need to earn your keep.

"What do I... where do I start?" You stammer, admittedly clueless as to what to do.

"I would start in the hallway, and once you get a feel for it, we can move you up to cooking in the kitchen with me." Tuare suggests. "I need to go help prepare dinner for the evening, but I'll be back in a little while. Will you be alright by yourself?"

You hesitate momentarily; the idea of being alone in a Tomb with strangers who don't seem too keen on the idea of humans moving in is beyond terrifying- but you then nod. You don't want to be the reason she is late for her job, not after all she has done for you.

"You may see other maids or maybe even Guardians while you work. Sebas has made everyone aware you are here, so you will be safe. But don't forget to bow to anyone you see. Guardians demand utmost respect." Tuare cautions.

"Okay. I certainly will. Thank you, Tuare. For everything." You say, and Tuare smiles, then bows low at the waist with a practiced grace, lowering her head. You return the gesture rather clumsily, and stumble a bit.

_'Damn it.'_

You are still somewhat unbalanced thanks to head trauma, but at least you don't fall on your face.

A lingering sense of unease latches on with spiny teeth when Tuare disappears down the hall and turns into the swinging double-doors of the kitchen.

Now you are all alone.

You press your lips into a thin line and look around. Compared to the blood-stained and grimy brothel, this place is in immaculate condition. The air is anointed with the scent of wood polish and lemon, as if it were just wiped down yesterday.

_'This place really needs dusting? But it's already so clean!'_

You suppose you can simply pretend it's dirty and flick the feathers over things for practice. It is better to look busy than not.

As you sweep over the hallway and many elegantly framed paintings that hang throughout the tomb, you gradually became more comfortable by yourself and practiced in your movements.

Upon closer inspection, you notice that there is dust is collecting is the little grooves of the intricate wall molding that stretches up from the baseboards.

 _Okay._ Maybe it was a little dirtier than it first appeared.

_'But still, this isn't so bad. In fact, it's easy. I can do this.'_

Just as you began to build confidence, you hear footfalls clicking over the marble behind you. You think this to be Tuare returning to check on you, but as you glance over your shoulder and the silhouette draws closer, you can discern it was someone much taller.

 _'Shit...'_ Fear blooms in your chest, pushing the air from your lungs.

A man. A dauntingly tall man.

He is broad of shoulder and dressed sharply in a vermilion pinstripe suit. His hair is dark and slicked back into jagged points. His features are angular and regal, as are his ears; they are long and pointed with silver rings and cuffs adorning his right one.

 _'Not a man. Something inhuman.'_ Your anxiety increases tenfold.

Something flashes through your mind. A fragment of a memory.

Someone... maybe your mother or perhaps an older sister, used to read to you from a book which featured the native species of Yggdrasil, and you remember admiring the charcoal drawings of dark elves, ogres, goblins, lizard men and demons of all classes.

You try to make out her face, but it's watery and smeared.

He does not resemble an ogre or goblin though. He is much more human-looking, and is quite attractive, undeniably more handsome than any of the clientele that you were forced to serve at the brothel. He possesses a strong but not quite aquiline nose, a brow that furrows with seemingly cold and calculating concentration, and he wears rounded, silver spectacles that compliment his high cheekbones and sharp jawline.

 _'Is he a dark elf?'_ You ask yourself.

He radiates an air of authority and intelligence, and you deduct that he must be a Guardian. The way he carries himself with his hands confidently tucked behind his back warns you he is deadlier than he looks; your suspicions are confirmed when you notice a steely armor-plated tail armed with six long spikes edging its head swaying behind him.

He is not just a demon. He is an Arch Devil.

_'Shit a brick and fuck me with it...'_

Your heart flips into your throat and your blood turns to ice in your veins with dread. Time slows to nearly a standstill.

 _"He may look really scary, but he did grant me protection under his name, and safety here."_ Tuare's words echo in your mind.

Shit, this guy definitely fits the description of 'scary'. What if he is Lord Ainz?

You do not simply bow; no, he is far more intimidating than what a bow of respect requires. You drop to your knees, and the Devil glances your way and momentarily quirks an eyebrow, seemingly somewhat taken aback by your respectful gesture.

You also lower your head in an attempt to make yourself as small and insignificant as possible.

"You, maid." Your heart drops through the floor, and you snap your head up.

 _'Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck...'_ He's talking to _you_ , and you are panicking inside.

"Come," The demon prompts with a sharp command. "I require assistance."

You swallow, terrified, but obediently scramble to your feet. As a Guardian, or very possibly the ruler of Nazarick himself, you must show him utmost respect, as Tuare advised.

But _dear fucking gods_ , you do not feel safe being escorted anywhere in this place by anyone but Tuare. However, you fear that if you show anything but absolute compliance, your resistance will give them a reason to throw you out.

You follow his lengthy strides as he stalks down the hallway. Your legs are long, but he is _tall_ and moves quickly- it's not easy keeping up with him.

Where he is leading you, you haven't a clue. Your heart is pounding, and you watch as his steely tail sways fluidly behind him, giving you the impression of a silvery serpent gliding through water. You take care to maintain a respectable distance from its range- it looks deadly, and you do not doubt a serious wound can be inflicted if it were to hit you. A furtive glance over your shoulder establishes the disheartening emptiness of the hallway. Tuare is nowhere in sight, as she is still occupied in the kitchen.

You have no reassurance, no lifeline of support and safety to cling to, and can only pray that he isn't guiding you to some place where no one will be able to hear you scream.

You are on your own.

The Devil treks on for what seems to be miles. Your feet are absolutely killing you at this point, and you wonder how the Hell Tuare manages to do her job in six-inch heels all damned day. Your chest heaves and burns with exertion, but you try to breathe quietly and not draw attention to yourself; this is the most exercise you have had since you were brought here.

Somehow, the demon does not seem winded in the least.

He brings you to a new and unfamiliar Floor. The lighting in this corridor is quite dim, and the dozens of torches that line the walls are the only reason you can see at all. It's considerably warmer on this level, and humidity seeps into your pores and causes your clothes to stick to your skin.

This level is composed entirely of cobblestone, which appears more ancient than the earth itself. Each rock is pitted and scarred, and this place looks like an actual tomb or maybe even a dungeon.

 _This_ is what was conjured in your mind when Tuare had told you that you had been brought to the Great Tomb of Nazarick.

As you brace your hand against the wall to catch your breath when the demon finally slows his pace, your palm finds the surface balmy and also coated with a thin layer of dark ash. It smells like summer rain after a wildfire. Scorched, dark and damp.

"In here." He says, and he pushes open a large oak door, and awaits for you to step in.

You are bound by instinctive hesitation, but then force a tentative step forward; traumatic experience promises that you will be locked in, but you are even more terrified of what could happen if you fail to comply with his request. He says nothing, but seems to sense your anxiety and chooses to step into the room first, alleviating a portion of your fear that this may be some sort of trap.

Still, you are wary.

You then cautiously follow, and strain your eyes to sketch out your surroundings. Once they adjust to the monochrome darkness, you can make out that you are in a crafting room of some sort. The lighting is even more dull in here than it was in the corridor, but you think you can discern the silhouette of a work bench, a very large table in the center, a few small shelves, and a neatly stacked pile of ash wood in the furthermost corner of the room.

There are cobwebs and a thin layer of dust coating everything. You squint to focus your gaze on several dirty glass vials full of mystery substances which line the shelves of the derelict room, the brilliance of their greens and blues are muted below the grayish layer. The dust was so thick on some of them that it looks more like they have sprouted fuzz. Some bottles were clearly more frequently used than others, and the fingerprints dotting them attest to their favoritism.

Now, _THIS_ place needs a good scrubbing.

"W-would you like me to clean in here, Master?" You offer, and again your tongue is tied with that gods-forsaken stutter, but this time it is born from shattered nerves.

When imprisoned in the brothel, you were trained to address your clients, and any male you encounter for that matter, as Master. To give them the impression of submissiveness and complete control often prevented things from escalating further, a precaution taken on the chance that they may be prone to violence. While the Devil is not a client, you do not doubt him to be a potentially violent individual.

He regards you for a moment, and cants his head ever so slightly. His tail flicks and his perusal of you turns penetrating, almost predatory, and you feel a smoldering aura of danger rolling off of him in hot waves. Your heart thuds hard against your ribs.

 _Shit._ Maybe you should not speak until spoken to.

"Yes... I would." He finally agrees, and reaches behind the door to pull out a broom and dustpan and leans it against the wall, rather than passing it to you. "You may return to your duties on the 9th Floor when you have finished."

The demon then collects a severely melted candle from his workbench and to your amazement, proceeds to conjure a tiny golden flame from the tip of his pointer claw, and lights the wick to cast a warm golden glow which highlights the contours of every shape in the room.

At least you can see a bit better now.

He then turns on his heel and leaves, and when you hear another door in the distance close, you let out a shuddering breath.

_'Holy shit.'_

He's intimidating as Hell. You were expecting either a lashing of the tongue or something worse for your offense, but he did no such thing- he simply let it go. He also was kind enough to give you a little more light to work with.

Perhaps the sense of danger prickling up your neck like insect legs is just your nerves being frayed after your harrowing ordeal.

Another brief survey of your surroundings makes you sigh wearily. You know you will have to go over everything more than once and work twice as hard to ensure it is all sufficiently clean, because you can barely see a damned thing in here.

The silvery lacework of spiders grace every wall and corner. Old cobwebs hang loosely in mats from the rafters, waving with a slight draft near the new and delicate silky strands of a living arachnid. You balance on your tiptoes the best you can and brush them away with your feather duster, and hope to Hell that the spiders don't avenge their homestead by jumping down onto your face.

You curse your petite frame when you can't reach them all. You get what you can, but you will need to stand on a chair to clear the rest away.

A quick glance at the admittedly bare room, and you groan inwardly at the lack of anything which could safely serve as a suitable step-ladder.

 _'Shit.'_ You hope the demon understands the struggles of the vertically challenged.

You decide to move on and collect each bottle off the top shelf and deposit them on the bottom, and with every swipe the black plumy feathers of your duster gray with filth at an alarming rate. You then follow up with a thorough wipe-down with the rag that Tuare told you to stash in your apron. Once the shelf is restored to its original polished luster, you then carefully buff the bottles, and hope the demon will be pleased with this detail. After putting everything back exactly as you had found it, you shift your attention to the large table in the center of the room and its adjacent workbench.

The table itself is massive, and big enough for you to lay on without your feet even coming close to hanging off the edges. It takes a while to dust and towel off its area.

Resting on the workbench is a shallow steel tray. Within it, you find a vast array of tools. You decide to shine them too, even though they are not particularly dirty- it would seem that he actually uses these often. They are unlike anything you have seen before. They did not appear to be quite the right design for woodworking, or anything you are remotely familiar with, for that matter. Most are pointed and sharp, some have serrated teeth, some have a razor's straight edge. Others are pick-like, and you see a few forceps and scissors, but they are not like the kind Tuare uses to trim your bandages. These are sleeker, almost surgical in appearance. You wonder what craft he specializes in.

Maybe he's a doctor?

Ah, yes, that would explain the tools and the table! This place must need a doctor at some point, right?

You finish this side of the room, but before you can sweep and mop the floor, you need to spiff up the wood pile in the corner. You tap handle of the duster on the edge of the table, causing a snowfall of gray from the feathers to powder the ground.

You cross the room and bend down, and begin to dust off the stack of pale wood... the center of the branches is narrow but sturdy, and they thicken and stretch outwards to be crowned in knobby ends. You wonder how it is possible for each to be shaped so uniformly- they do not look carved, they look too smooth, too polished-

...you strain your eyes.

_'Oh, gods...'_

Icy fear peels up your spine and your pulse kicks wildly.

They are not ash wood branches at all.

They are human femurs.

He is not a doctor. He is a _monster._

"Ah, well done! This place is looking better already."

You jolt hard with a start, damn near dropping your feather duster and whip around to see him stalking into the room.

You thickly swallow around the lump of fear in your throat, and your heart deafeningly drums in your ears.

"Th-thank you, Master." You squeak out, your knuckles turning white as your fingers clench tightly around the duster to keep your hands from shaking.

You want to run. But you can't. Yours legs feel firmly rooted to the floor. And you are frozen in place with fear.

_Frozen like prey._

He saunters over to the table and appraises your work. The corner of his mouth curls in a smirk.

"You even shined my tools. How thoughtful." He silkily remarks and runs his claw almost reverently over the one with serrated teeth.

"What are they for?" You stupidly blurt out without thinking.

Your eyes shutter closed and you feel your face tighten in a near wince when you realize what you have done- spoken out of turn. AGAIN.

 _'Fucking idiot._ ' You scold yourself.

You open them slowly to see him raise a brow at the brazen question, and then his grin stretches to reveal two wicked rows of not blunt teeth, but pointed _fangs._

"I like to think of myself as... a _medical scientist_ , of sorts." He selects his choice of words with meticulous precision, as though he is taking care not to startle you further. "The human body is a biological marvel, so I use these to dissect the dead and learn as much from the cadavers as possible."

The _dead. Cadavers_. So, he isn't killing people?

"In fact, had it not been for my research and the knowledge acquired from my autopsies and experiments, it would be unlikely that Tuare would still be with us today." He coolly explains, noting how your eyes flicker between him and the tray. "Her wounds were quite severe, as were _yours_. I did what I could for you both, but think with time, you should make a full recovery."

 _Oh._ Oh, fuck.

_'He is practically a doctor, and I am a colossal asshole. He helped save my life, and I assumed he's a fucking serial killer.'_

"Have you recovered any of your memories as of yet?" He inquires, his voice adopting a rather clinical tone as he begins to rearrange his tools back into their preferred order.

"I... I sort of remember Tuare. She was in the brothel with me. But that is all, I think." You tell him, the majority of your trepidation melting away.

"I see. Before long, you should begin to piece together the rest. Besides the gaps in your memory, have you experienced any other side effects associated with head trauma? Nausea? Vomiting? Headaches?" He probes.

_'Yep. Definitely a doctor.'_

"No, Master. And thank you... for helping me." You quietly murmur, and try collect your frazzled thoughts into a semblance of order. "I would probably be dead otherwise."

"Indeed." He concludes grimly.

 _'Shit.'_ You may have offended him- he's clearly far from ignorant, and _has_ to know you had assumed the worst about him. You cannot help but feel reprehensible for judging him so hastily.

You feel him gauging your every expression, as though he is trying to memorize a textbook. Intently and with unshakable concentration.

"Um... is there anything else you would like for me to do after I finish here, Master?" You extend an olive branch, hoping you haven't burned a bridge before it was even built.

"Actually, there is..." He licks his lips. "I do not expect an answer right away, so please do not feel obligated to say yes or no immediately. But once you are settled and more comfortable in your new surroundings, I am in need of a personal assistant. I simply ask that you take this position within the Tomb into consideration."

Your lips part in shock. You were a judgmental bastard, and here he is offering you a fucking job.

You couldn't say no after you may have already hurt his feelings. And it's not like he was demanding an instant response.

Besides, how hard could it be? He would likely only have you cleaning and bringing him meals- that's what the here maids do, isn't it? 

"O-okay... I think I might like that." You say, and give him a small smile.

He slowly smiles back, breaking the tension like a pebble gently breaking the surface of still water, and as you watch his tail give a seemingly pleased wave, and you feel an airy flutter in your stomach. It's an odd sensation, and it causes your breath to hitch in your throat. Even in your current predicament, you still have eyes in your head, and there's no missing the fact he's six-foot-two of broad shoulders and elegantly angular features.

Would it really be so bad to work for him all day if _this_ was the view?

_'No. No, it wouldn't.'_

"Excellent." He replies at last, and pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with two digits. "I do hope you take me up on it."

He leaves you to finish the job, and you unconsciously worry at your lower lip the entire time. If you accept his offer, you'll secure yourself a position in the Tomb under a Guardian, and therefore ensure that you will have a home.

And besides Tuare, he is the only one here who has shown you any decency, despite the fact that you are human. He's been nothing but a gentleman.

You decide you will take it.

Once you are confident the room has been restored to it's morbid glory, you are utterly wiped out. Your bones feel heavy and your muscles ache to give in to the pull of gravity. Your health is still far from one hundred percent, and the mere hour of work has left you drained and drunk with fatigue. You slowly hobble back to the Ninth Floor and every step is like burning, broken glass under your feet.

These heels will be your death. Whoever invented them can eat a buffet of dicks.

By the time you make it back to where Tuare had left you, you feel as if you have just scaled a mountain. You sneak a quick peek into the kitchen, and Tuare is still busy darting back and forth with loaded plates balanced on her arms between the hustle and bustle of other waitstaff. Rather than bothering her, you haul your exhausted self back to your room. After unfastening the ridiculous number of straps that shackle the heels of Hell to your feet, you flop onto the bed for a much-needed nap.

* * *

You know it's coming, and your muscles tense as much as they can to brace for the impact- but the knowing doesn't soften the blow.

It _never_ does.

His fist strikes as hard as you knew it would. You feel the bone in your clavicle splinter into an untold number of fragments as your brain becomes inoperable. He's on top of you, holding you down with his knees pinning your elbows, his obscene weight crushing the air from your lungs.

You had already drained what little strength you had trying to fight him from wrangling you into this position.

_'Escape...escape...escape...'_

The pain takes you elsewhere, but not too far away; somewhere deep inside, to that dark, safe place that absorbs the mind-shattering kind of agony which precedes death. Your vision is blotched with violent hues of red and purple that shapelessly move and merge without pattern or design.

You wonder if it's just blood in your eyes. 

The tidal wave of pain still cripples your sight, but the bastard swims back into view. His lips pull back into a sickening grin to reveal crooked, yellow teeth.

 _'I'll rip them out of your skull, one by one...'_ You vow with blistering hatred.

It is unnerving to see the eyes of a serpent glaring down at you from a human face; his icy gaze is empty of emotion and utterly devoid of conscience.

Your sight is darkening around the edges, tunneling your vision. Which is fine. You don't care to see or feel anymore anyway.

He's so fucking heavy, it's impossible to breath. You think you may actually suffocate this time.

You vaguely make out trails of ruby running down the massive wall of his body, like rain over a window pane. Suddenly you feel it splashing hotly onto your skin. Your eyes flutter to open wider, and you see matte black claws pull tightly from their fleshy sheaths to hook into the meat of his shoulder, and they brutally rip backwards, making gaping wounds like fabric being torn at the seams.

The manner in which sound comes rushing back into your ears is as the ocean crashes full force to the shore, and he is _screaming_.

Your eyes are drawn to his face, and for once, _HE_ is afraid. The fear in his eyes is wild, _raw_ , and it sends an alien thrill whipping through your veins.

At last, predator has become prey.

Despite your wretched state of debilitation, it is enough to make a tiny smile play on your lips.

His bellows are then deafened by an explosive roar like thunder tearing open the bowels of the sky.

You jolt awake in a cold sweat, gasping for air as the phantom weight of your rapist fades and you can once again feel your lungs fill with oxygen.

Everything is nearly pitch black. A shape stirs in the bed across from yours and the hair on your arms prickles with adrenaline-charged fear before you realize it is only Tuare.

It dark because nightfall was hours ago.

 _Shit,_ you must have slept through the rest of the entire day!

"Are you alright?" She mumbles groggily.

You wipe the sweat from your brow and peel back the heavy comforter to cool yourself down.

"I think so..." You pant, and try to still your trembling hands and slow your hammering heart with deep breaths. "... just a bad dream."

* * *

_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend Kind Hearted, Dark Souled, by Kawaii Pigeon. <https://archiveofourown.org/works/24431038/chapters/58944934>

Summary: Dez has joined the guild of Ainz Ooal Gown when it was first gaining tractions. This is not only how she transferred with Momonga, but also how she joined. 

This story is so fun; it has saucy flirting and big horny energy. X3 Me gusta.

Below is a drawing of Dez's demon form, Karma. ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/apocalypticromantic666)  
> [My Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/jaldabaoth666)
> 
> My other stories:
> 
> [Overlord Kinktober! Okay, I know October is nearly over, but who cares? I'll be adding to this anyways. 😂 Because no one complains about better-late-than-never smut.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056608/chapters/66058684)
> 
> [Let Me Serve You, an Ainz/Demiurge fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995411/chapters/57721879)
> 
> [ Experiment 3069, a Demiurge/Reader fic. Dark and smutty, a rewrite of The Devil's Plaything.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904596/chapters/62954236)
> 
> 💖💖💖 Thank you for your reviews and kudos! They are much appreciated. 💖💖💖


	4. Tears and Ashes

You wish you had slept better last night, because today is a big day.

Today you are to begin learning how to cook. Tuare awakens bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the crack of dawn, but you, on the other hand, are utterly exhausted.

An exasperated groan rumbles through your pillow when she thrusts open the curtains to reveal the peachy blush of the sky, and you reluctantly tunnel out of your cocoon of covers; you had a Hell of a time trying to fall back to sleep last night after your nightmare.

 _'Ugh... I don't wanna.'_ You desperately want at least one more hour to snooze.

Tuare is already peeling away the fluted paper of a muffin and taking a bite while you are still fumbling to get dressed. In your groggy daze you chip a nail securing a garter strap and also put your shoes on the wrong foot.

 _'Damn it.'_ You rub your face in frustration.

Now you have to unbuckle the half-dozen straps and start all over.

You try to hurry, as you are both a bit pressed for time- you have to be there early for your training, before the rest of the cooks arrive for their daily duties.

You swipe the blueberry muffin Tuare saved for you off of the nightstand and wolf it down on the go.

The kitchen is exquisite- a vast array of pristine utensils hang on brass hooks above a massive rectangular island of granite that is edged with cedar cutting boards, and in between each row rests professional knife blocks with cherry-wood carved handles jutting outwards. The varnished burgundy shelves are stocked with all colorful flavors and nature of spices in cork-sealed glass jars. Stacks of hand-painted bone china gleam from their cabinets.

Powdered spices lay in rust red and dusty yellow piles, and leaves of bright greens are already neatly stacked on one of the boards. Fat orange carrots rest on the one before you, and Tuare gives you a brief demonstration on how to lop off the ends and to peel them with a Y-shaped tool. It was simple enough, and you make short work of them.

Tuare then passes you a chopping knife. The polished silver cutlery feels cool and heavy in your hand, and a flicker of insecurity ponders if you may hurt yourself with it. You eyelids are disobediently dipping; you are still a bit groggy, so you decide to play it safe and start by watching Tuare's example first. You observe with as much focus as you can muster as she rocks the blade with practiced motion and cuts all of the carrots into perfect matchsticks in the time it took you just peel one of the vegetables.

"How is our newest member faring? Woof." You hear a sweet and motherly voice ask.

 _'Wait... did she just say "woof"?'_ Your exhaustion-addled mind cannot decide if you are simply hearing things, being made fun of or possibly cat-called.

You whirl around to see who it belongs to, and damn near shit a brick.

You are staring into the face a black and white bipedal Shetland sheepdog. A pink and shiny surgical suture runs from the center of her muzzle and all the way up to the crown of her forehead to disappear under her black, frilly bonnet, and you wonder if it is the only thing holding her skull together. Triangular blinders marked with X's veil her eyes and a fawn colored bow accentuates her neck. She is finely dressed as a maid, and judging by her more upscale and elaborate garb, she likely runs the roost around here.

_'Say something, damn it!'_

But shock makes your tongue feel thick and numb in your mouth.

"She's doing great, Pestonya! She helped dust and clean yesterday, and is well on her way to cooking too!" Tuare is your saving grace.

Your friend doesn't seem alarmed by her, so you feel it is safe to assume the Frankenstein-dog-maid is harmless.

But _dear fucking gods_ , you wish you had more of a heads-up that there would be creatures like this working alongside you in the kitchen so you could have been a little more... _prepared_.

Because now you're standing here, speechless and staring with your mouth agape, making a complete ass of yourself.

"I-I'm doing well!" You belatedly and not-so-eloquently sputter when your brain finally flips back on, and haphazardly bow like an idiot with a chopping knife still clasped tightly in your hand.

"That is wonderful! Woof. We look forward to adding you as a valuable asset to Nazarick's cooking staff."

"Th-thank you! I'll do my best." To your horror, the words tumbling from your mouth sound as stupid as you feel, but the dog-headed maid only wags her tail and her black lips pull back to form what you think is a smile.

"I'll leave you both to it, then. Tuare, let me know if there is anything you require. Woof."

"Thank you, Pestonya!" Your friend bows and waves good-bye.

When she's out of sight, you blanch and lament your social failure of epic proportions.

"I'm so awkward..." You bury your face in your palm to hide your blush of shame.

"Don't feel bad. I was just as startled when I first met her. Pestonya is the Head Maid and one of the only ones here who likes humans. She even taught me how to cook and sew!" Tuare is so kind as to take the sting out of your wounded pride. "Um... where were we?"

Tuare returns to her lesson in showing you how to chop without missing a beat. Her confidence and apparent fearlessness is enviable, and you wonder if you will ever be so resilient to the shock of the unnatural denizens of the Tomb.

At least you aren't sleepy anymore and can now devote your full attention to her demonstration.

Every motion Tuare makes is precise from practice and repetition, and the way she smiles as she works attests to how she prides herself on the machine-like perfection of the shapes she creates.

"So, what are we making?" You ask when you notice a few ingredients seem rather mismatched- there is a ceramic bowl of what may be either syrup or honey, a dish of shelled nuts and a several stacks of dewy leaves of what you assume is some sort of lettuce... or perhaps cabbage?

"We're preparing carrots for not only our lunch in the next few hours, but also for the other maids of the Tomb. We're having kale and carrot salad, with peach vinaigrette and topped with honey-roasted walnuts."

You aren't sure that you are a big salad eater or even know what kale is, but that actually sounds palatable!

Tuare has you wash the large, crisp leaves of kale and stir the chopped nuts into the small bowl of what you now know to be dark golden honey. Once they are efficiently coated with the sticky sweetness, you lay them out on a baking sheet and pop them into the oven.

By the next hour, your carrot slices are almost as well-executed as Tuare's.

"Wow, you're learning quickly!" Tuare gushes at your rapid improvement. "I knew you could do it!"

You wonder if maybe you possessed cooking skills previous to being enslaved in the brothel, because the knife that once felt unwieldy now feels quite natural in your hand, a familiar weight and extension of yourself. You feel a strange inclination to give it a light twirl, twisting it in the daylight streaming through the windows as if it could slice up the sun rays. Your movements are as fluid as water with muscle memory as you toss it high into the air and watch it somersault before you catch the handle with the opposite hand.

"Whoa... where did you learn how to do that?" Tuare is bewildered.

Your brow puckers with parallel puzzlement. It's a damn good question, because you haven't a clue. Just an hour ago, you fretted that you might cut yourself with it.

"...I don't know. I just know how, I think." You surmise.

 _'Odd_.'

* * *

With your lunches made, you join her in the maid's quarters to eat and bring her up to speed on yesterday's events.

"I can't thank you enough for helping me. I'm actually starting to feel more human again. And I think I actually like it here!" You express your gratitude before taking a bite of your salad.

"Of course! I'm always happy to help, and glad to see you are adjusting well." Tuare replies brightly and spears a few leaves onto her fork. "This place can certainly take some getting used to, especially with us being the only humans. Have you seen Sebas or any of the other Guardians since you have been here?"

"I... actually can't remember what Sebas looks like." You admit with a light shake of your head. "I try every day, and sometimes I remember bits of my life before the brothel, but I still don't recall how I ended up there."

Tuare lays her hand over yours from across the table and squeezes reassuringly. "It's okay if you don't remember yet. I can reintroduce you to him tomorrow. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you!"

You nod, and then continue. "But I think I met Lord Ainz. And you were right, he is... _pretty scary,_ to put it lightly." You wholeheartedly agree with her assessment. "But I bowed like you said, and he brought me to his Floor to clean for him. He even offered me a job!"

"He actually spoke to you?" Tuare's eyes widen with disbelief. "The Guardians rarely speak to me. Even after Lord Ainz granted me protection, I'm still treated as an outsider by many. But that's great! I was wondering where you went yesterday. Are you going to take it?"

"Yes, I think I will. He was polite, so I don't think I'll mind working for him at all!" You conclude, and moan softly around a bite of the sweetened, roasted nuts.

Apparently, you have a sweet tooth.

"That should mean you'll get to stay!" Tuare lights up.

You swallow and smile, then dab your mouth with your linen napkin.

"That is what I'm hoping too. If I'm working for someone, maybe they'll deem me as useful enough to keep around."

You hope so, anyway.

* * *

After you both finish eating, Tuare instructs you to dust a new section of the great hall while she finishes preparing lunch for the other maid staff.

She leads you a fair distance from the kitchen, and you are pleased to find that this area's decor boasts multiple magnificent canvases- it is more akin to an art gallery.

Tuare supplies you with a soft rag and also a small bowl of some sort of mixture which smells of white vinegar to apply as polish for the gold and silver frames. She returns to the kitchen, again leaving you to stand as alone and still with uncertainty as a singular statue in the pristine silence of the empty hallway.

You take a deep breath to clear your head, as well as your anxiety, and you survey your surroundings in detail. You set the bowl on an end table next to a kintsugi vase veined with brilliant gold, and start by lightly brushing the frames with your duster.

Several paintings are abstract in nature, and are but streaks and pours of acrylic color without pattern or design- but the largest one, which you deem to be the centerpiece, catches your eye.

It is a breathtaking depiction of a black tiger, with velvety coal stripes. An unnatural light glows beneath his pelt as though he has devoured the sun itself. His jaws snarl into a wrinkled mask of fury to reveal fangs of molten gold, and his eyes are windows to his heart of fire. His defensively flattened ears are adorned with many rings, which you appreciate as a unique touch of edginess.

The great cat perfectly embodies the blistering hatred and roiling rage that festers like a wound in the darkest part of your soul. You contemplate if a creature such as this had channeled itself through you when you clawed at your rapist and felt his blood spill under the violent rake of your nails.

The surroundings within your peripheral begin smear and blur out of focus like the smudges of a charcoal sketch and you feel yourself falling into the tiger's eyes, fathomless lakes of swirling magma, and you absentmindedly sweep the feathers over the gilded astorian frame.

There, in the primordial penumbra within the recesses of your mind, rests a polished seed of darkness. You _see_ , rather than feel when it splits and cracks into a yawning chasm, before crumbling into smoldering ash to give birth to a tiny fire that burns steadily with new life within the ruins of itself like phoenix. You are drawn to it, like a moth to flame- it is mesmerizing, the way it flickers; cognizant, unyielding, _fierce_.

Instinctive fear commands you to recoil, but a foreign curiosity takes hold, rippling through every particle of your being. It drowns out your apprehension and urges you to fan it, to keep it burning, to _feed it_ ; it is equally as comforting in its empowerment as its unfamiliarity is frightening. Your heart launches into a sprint as you recall the sense of raw power that weaved through you as you heard him _scream_ _.  
_

Sensing yourself tipping headlong into the inky depths, as if falling from a dream into oblivion, you jolt.

_Demiurge passes through the hallway, prompt as always in answering his Lord's summon. His blood runs hot with trepidation. The decision is soon to be made as to what will become of the stray Sebas has taken in._

_To his delight, he just so happens to find himself crossing paths with the human as she performs her dusting duties, and his gaze burns into her back._

_It riles the most primal part of him; how careless and oblivious she is, to the predator watching, waiting._

_He stalks silently towards her, so she is deaf to his approach. The demon pauses when he is little more than a foot away, taking the opportunity to fully appraise her appearance. For a human female, she is quite pretty. Not as physically stunning as the succubus Albedo of course, but aesthetically pleasing in his eyes, nonetheless. The long, golden hair that cascades loosely in waves around her shoulders smells sweet with a warm halo of honeysuckle._

_He inhales evenly and scents her quietly with a devised nonchalance, careful not to reveal his rabid desire to defile, to claim, even though he is holding the chains of his self-control with a white-knuckled grip. His mouth waters- she smells of feminine pheromones, lilies, orange blossoms and peaches._

_So deliciously familiar..._

_Her skin looks as smooth as silk over glass, and is moonlight pale from being trapped indoors for several years. Her frame is sleek and slender, cat-like; he knows this to be because they were given little nutrition to keep them thin and weak while imprisoned at the brothel. His eyes wander over the bruises which still dapple her exposed arms and neck. It pleases him to see that they are gradually fading with the passage of time._

_**'Excellent.'** He prefers a blank canvas for which to create his own masterpiece._

_The demon watches her head tip back, and hears her breath stutter in her throat as she absorbs the malicious magnificence that is the painting before her. Without the frightened racing of her heart and the wariness of her senses alerting her to his presence, she is still and silent, and he savors the thrum of her body— the vibrant spark that animates mortal bones and tender muscles._

_He hears the tempo of her heartbeat quicken, but she does not detect him yet._

_No, it is the painting that is responsible. It speaks to her, as it does to him.  
_

Jerking yourself out of the trance, you peel yourself away from the captivating painting and turn with your feather duster in hand. Upon seeing the towering form standing before you, you almost drop it with a start and your voice flees your throat as your heart plummets to your feet.

It is the Devil. When he had approached, you cannot be sure.

_'How long has he been standing here?!'_

Beyond startled, you are momentarily frozen before you manage to gather your scattered wits and bend at the waist to your lower your head in an awkward bow.

"My apologies for startling you. I am curious if you have yet to consider my offer?" He inquires and clasps his hands casually behind his back, analyzing you with a sphinx-like stare.

"Y-yes, Master." You feel as if you are shrinking to the size of a mouse beneath his shadow, and you slowly straighten your posture. You have never been this close to him- your face only just meets with the broad expanse of his chest.

"… I would like the job." You succeed in banishing the tremor from your voice as you give him your answer, and keep your eyes cast downward.

Through your peripheral, you observe as he draws one hand from behind his back, and every small movement of his muscles is accentuated by the tailored fit of his flawlessly pressed suit.

He gently cups your chin in his gloved hand and he tips your face to meet his gaze. You have to fight the urge to not jolt at the unexpected physical contact, and you adamantly keep your eyes averted from his, as you were trained to do.

"It's alright, you may look at me." He says softly. The Arch Devil's voice carries an eerie, inherent chill that belies the gentle tone of his words, and it makes cold fear trickle over your scalp.

You do as he orders, trembling like a leaf. His leather gloves are buttery soft, but his fingers within end in claws that are sharp on your jaw, and threaten to puncture your flesh.

He isn't hurting you, but there is a thick, dark swarming menace about him. You know that as an Arch Devil, he radiates an aura of evil, as is only natural for his species.

Still, it does not make him any less frightening.

Your gaze meets his with a flicker of hesitation, and you gasp.

_The demon studies her eyes; they glisten with fear, as to be expected. She is questioning his intentions, but is taking care not speak unless spoken to. She obeys, and her gaze does not yield, despite her obvious apprehension. She quivers lightly against his touch, yet holds her ground._

_Her acquiescence to this brief physical contact makes blood hum pleasantly to his groin, and he clenches his jaw against a sudden urge to touch her, flesh on flesh._ _He scents her again, but the tangy, delightful spike of mortal terror is strangely absent. He can see her pulse racing, thumping wildly against the side of her neck in reaction to his proximity, but she successfully battles her natural instinct to flee.  
_

_**'How fascinating.'** _

_Yes, she is ideal for what he seeks.  
_

Behind the glass of his spectacles, in place of eyes are what look to be finely polished diamonds which are absent of pupils or sclera, and are intricately carved with countless sparkling facets. Your frightened reflection gapes back at you from the dozen mirrors of the gems. How he can see is a mystery.

His stare is incandescent with a supernatural light.

_'Should I really be surprised by this after seeing a talking dog-lady, though?'_

When he speaks again, it is with pleasure, velvet and black. "I am pleased with your decision." He favors you with a vulpine smile. "I will make the proper arrangements. You are to have your own room, clothes, and will now be staying on _my Floor._ "

The demon releases you, and pivots his attention towards the painting which you find so captivating.

His crystalline eyes roam over the canvas in a brief glance, and the reverence in his gaze attests that he has dedicated much time to studying it. Once again, you regard the slashing black brushstrokes that carve the beast's stripes through the hues of steel grey and ebony, as well as the flares of red and gold that birth a fiery image of primal rage.

It summons the taste tears, scorched earth and ash on your tongue.

"This one is beautiful; I really like it." You say in an awkward attempt to stir the thick silence.

"As do I," He says, and redirects his gaze back to you. "I am fond of collecting pretty things."

His words send a forbidden thrill zipping through your veins. You swallow, your mouth suddenly feeling bone dry.

"It's yours?"

"My creator's, to be precise. But when he departed from our realm for a new level of ascension, it was bequeathed to me. It is now one of my most prized possessions." The demon elaborates.

 _Creator._ You ponder what the Devil means by that. Was he not born of flesh as you were?

"What does this painting convey to you?" He decides to pick your brain, and you are admittedly disarmed by such a question.

You take him for an aficionado of the finer things in life, based on both his elegant poise and attire, and wonder if he would be at all satisfied with your uneducated answer. You drink in the wild and Stygian flavor of the piece before you reply.

"The fire of unbridled rage." You lick your lips. "The darker part of us all."

"Indeed." One side of his mouth curls, and relief seeps through you. "Rage may release itself in the form of art, or the toll on our being, taking a dark shape and weaving itself into the metaphors of dreams... or _nightmares_. Or it may come as fluid movements that are a song of emotions, or channeled into brushstrokes upon a canvas."

_'Well... that was far more eloquent than anything I could have said.'_

"It's beautiful." Is all you can think to say, and he nods.

"A beast such as he is poetry in motion, I believe." The demon muses. "Have you ever laid eyes on a tiger?"

"No, Master. I cannot say that I have."

"Then consider yourself fortunate. You will never be truly humbled or know the raw fear of being hunted until you look into his eyes." He says cryptically, and his glittering gaze burns into yours with enough heat to melt glass. "I find it most interesting how Man likes to paint himself as an apex predator, but he is utterly lacking in both fang and claw. He is not built for the kill. No, man is _prey_ ; blunt nails, blunt teeth, and slow on foot. One might argue that his eyes are forward-facing and his mind is his greatest weapon, but regardless, he is _not_ at the top of the food chain. Should you ever dare tread in a tiger's territory, do so with utmost caution and respect."

_Not a single word leaves the demon's mouth that is not of dual meaning. He's testing the waters, giving her tiny glimpses of his nature and then smoothing her hackles down with unparalleled guile._

_He will sheath his claws for a while yet.  
_

Just when your pulse kicks as you sense what very well may be a veiled threat lacing his words, the Devil chooses that moment to walk away and leave you to your own devices.

For someone as tall as he, there is so little sound as he stalks away that it occurs to you to wonder if you have been conversing with a ghost.

Perhaps the demon simply has a flair for the dramatic, but the hair on the back of your neck flaring in instinctive alarm warns otherwise.

You give the astorian frame of the painting a final pass of your feather duster, and take note of an ornate silver plaque soldered to the bottom edge of the frame. It is engraved with calligraphic letters.

**_Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night;_ **

**_What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_ **

**_In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_ **

**_On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?_ **

**__ **

* * *

_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend a couple of fics from Ceresoktavia: The Inofficial Number 42- <https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318018/chapters/40738547>

And a Peek Behind Closed Doors- <https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901425/chapters/47138098>

These fics were a few of the first I read on Ao3, and APBCD was one of the first Demiurge romances I ever read. I fell in love with this author's work immediately.

Below is a drawing of her character Marlianken and my own OC Malphas getting friendly. ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tiger painting in this chapter is Jade Merien's, and you can find this incredible artist's work here: https://linktr.ee/jademerien


	5. Sanctuary

Your next hour is spent bending and stooping, and your thighs and sides are aching in protest as you finish dusting and polishing the many frames of the great hall.

The cryptic conversation with the Devil has left you rattled. You spare a nervous glance back at the painting and your stomach tightens with anxiety, and a stillness blankets you; it feels as if the entire Tomb waits with bated breath, akin to how the forest falls silent with a heavy hush when there is a predator lurking nearby. The tiger somehow feels alive with an air of malignant awareness that makes your flesh crawl, and you tear your gaze away from it. Something sinister beckons from within the molten gold of his eyes, frightening and yet tantalizingly alluring with lethal beauty.

Maybe you really are prey- you cannot help but wonder as you stand wary yet entranced by the visage of a predator.

The echo of heels clicking over the marble expanse of the hall draws your attention from the fluted grooves of a massive alabaster pillar that you are brushing out. Relief washes over you when you see that it is only Tuare, but her face is slightly pinched into a rather solemn expression, as if all of the sunniness has been sucked out of her.

"Tuare?" You call. "What's wrong?"

"Pestonya says you are to be brought to the throne room immediately. I think Lord Ainz is about to make his decision." She informs you. "I thought he would not be doing so until tomorrow."

"But... he already came to speak with me." Your brows knit with confusion. "I told him that I would take the job."

You are admittedly puzzled, but you rest your polishing rag down on the cherry wood end table and straighten your outfit in preparation to accompany her.

"Um... that's odd." Tuare looks equally stumped and licks her lips. "But we had best hurry. We cannot keep Lord Ainz waiting."

She leads you down the great hall to your destination, and you see a familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette sauntering from the opposite direction. Tuare slams on the brakes and comes to a dead halt.

"There's Lord Ainz now." You whisper, and watch the red-clad Devil push the towering double doors open to enter what you are assuming is the throne room. He pauses, and turns to look at you. You bow, and he flashes a cavalier smirk before disappearing into the room. You then redirect your attention to Tuare. "See? There's nothing to worry ab-"

The hair on the back of your neck prickles with alarm when you see that the color has drained from her face, and her eyes are blown wide with fear- she is frozen. A bead of nervous sweat rolls down her neck.

Tuare looks utterly petrified.

"Are you alright?"

"Th-that's not Lord Ainz." She squeaks out, and her lips roll and you watch the motion of her anxious swallow.

_'Then who the Hell is he?'_

"That is Lord Demiurge."

"Lord Demiurge?" His name doesn't ring a bell. "Who is that?"

"The Guardian of the Seventh Floor. He-"

"Make haste! Lord Ainz has summoned you." You both jump out of your skins when Pestonya gently ushers you forward to escort you to the throne room, away from your trusted friend, your only real lifeline in this place.

You peer back at Tuare, and she remains still as a statue with raw worry etched into her features. But she does not follow, nor finish her explanation.

Who is Lord Demiurge? Why is she so afraid of him? A cold and heavy stone of dread settles icily into your stomach, and you hope like Hell you haven't made a terrible mistake.

"Um...Pestonya? Who is Lord Demiurge?" You ask quietly as you walk.

"Lord Demiurge is our Commander of Defenses and the Guardian of the Seventh Floor. He is to lead Nazarick in its Defense if we are ever to fall under siege." She clarifies. "He is remarkably intelligent and can outwit all but the Supreme One with strategic thinking alone. We are most fortunate to have him on our side."

 _'That doesn't sound so bad. So, he's like a combat Commander or something.'_ That would explain his intense 'predator and prey' talk, but you do not see his position as a reason to fear him, and it would seem he is well-respected individual, according to Pestonya.

"I hear he has offered you a job." She comments. "Have you accepted his offer?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have." You tell her with a furtive glance, and try not to stare at the massive scar that seems to split her face in two.

"Then be sure to address him as Lord, Lord Demiurge, or Master when conversing. And tomorrow, we will show you how to cook his meals to his preference."

 _'Aw, Hell.'_ You had just barely learned how to chop carrots and use an oven. How were you going to cook an entire meal?

"Here we are. Lord Ainz may look quite frightening to you, but he is a fair and merciful ruler." Pestonya advises, and pushes open the door for you. "Remember to bow."

"Thank you." You say, and slowly walk in, with your heart threatening to hammer out of its cage.

 _'Holy filet of fuck!'_ The seconds crawl by like hours as your feet root themselves to the floor, and your every muscle freezes in paralytic indecision. It's the only thing preventing you from swiveling around and fleeing like the hounds of Hell are on your heels when you lay eyes upon the Lord of the Tomb.

The true ruler of Nazarick is the most intimidating entity you have ever beheld; the colossal undead emperor reclined confidently on his throne; he makes the fact that you think the demon is frightening almost laughable. 

He is nothing short of terrifying; an Elder Lich, a sorcerer whose form is that of a 7-foot-tall skeleton clothed in a regal black academic robe, edged in royal violet and gold trim. The collar is resplendent with just a touch of edginess; it appears to be forged of curved metal horns and banded with polished chunks of ruby stone as thick as your thighs.

His face, however, is his most startling feature- it is a bare gray skull. Points of crimson red light burn like twin blood moons in the cold, black space of his eye sockets, and his entire form glows with an aura of dark radiance.

He is an Overlord, and among the highest-ranking of magic casters who have become undead in order to master the most potent of spells.

Despite being scared to death, you muster every ounce of your courage to favor him with a trembling bow and silently thank Pestonya again for giving you an idea as to what expect.

Now that your focus isn't entirely nailed to the Elder Lich, you realize that the demon and Sebas, two rigid pillars of composure, stand before the throne. In the towering presence of Lord Ainz, your brain didn't even register the other two mere feet away.

Upon seeing the gray haired and bearded Butler, you instantly recognize him as a small fragment of your shattered memory clicks back into place. His hair is pure white, as is the beard and mustache framing his mouth. His face is wrinkled at the corners of his eyes with laugh lines, which gives you the impression that he is a kind and gentle person, but his intense, steel-gray eyes remind you of a wolf. Despite his piercing gaze, there is an underlying softness and warmth to his eyes; a kindness and mercy just beneath the surface. The old man's back is ramrod-straight, like a sword forged of steel. He is stone faced, and donned in a black tuxedo suit.

Much of your memory of that night is still watery, but you know him in your heart to be your rescuer.

Sebas is quiet and still, like the calm before the storm; his lips are pressed into a grim line. It sends a low swoop of anxiety through your stomach.

Something is wrong.

"I cannot imagine what would possess you to bring yet another human into the walls of Nazarick, Sebas. The ruler rumbles in the deepest baritone you have ever heard; it rattles you to the very marrow of your bones. "After the fiasco it created before, I do hope you had a very good reason." His phantom voice booms not from lungs, but from a crimson crystal ball of power that rests within his ribs' cage of ivory- his jaw does not move at all when he speaks.

The glorified Grim Reaper is unabashed in making it clear that he is not particularly pleased by your presence.

"Yes, Lord. Had I not come to her aid; she would have been beaten to death. The aggressor was the same ma- _monster_ who had nearly killed Tuare. And her fate would have..." He closes his eyes, as though he is struggling to find the right words as he relives what he has witnessed. "I could _not_ in good conscience stand idly by and watch her die." He concludes, tipping his chin upwards, resolute in his belief that he has done the right thing.

_Lord Ainz carefully considers the Butler's response as he rests his chin on his ring-adorned knuckles. He can see how sympathetic Sebas is to her plight; though that should come as no surprise- valiance is the heart of his core programming. While this is indeed an inconvenience, he is also admittedly impressed; the NPCs are not only moving of their own volition, but seem to be developing genuine emotions that influence their decisions as well._

_Sebas has proven his loyalty once before by demonstrating that he will obey an order to kill the very human he rescued and risked everything for, so he does not doubt his allegiance in the least. No, this is a matter of the NPCs evolving beyond their programming._

_'Remarkable.'_

"So, it is because her fate would have been Tuare's? Had you not prevented Tuare's death when she was left in the street to die?" Ainz connects the dots.

"Yes Lord. It is as you say." Sebas agrees with a somber nod, bearing his master's scathing stare. "I offer my sincerest apologies for letting my emotions dictate my actions once more. But that... _monster_ could not be allowed to continue. It was more than a disgrace. It was criminal, what he had done. She is a victim, like Tuare, and not a threat to us in the least. I understand if you cannot allow her to remain here. But my Lord, I implore you to spare her life. Tuare remembers her and has taken to her well, and if I may humbly give my opinion, I think she would fare here even better with another human, a friend to confide in."

Sebas kneels in a low bow as he pleads for your life, the definition of valiant and selfless.

"So, now that she is safe and healed, what do you intend to do with her? We already have one human working in the kitchen." Ainz presses, curious if Sebas has even thought that far ahead.

"I understand this was not protocol, as well as the security risk that comes with bringing in outsiders, so if you wish it, I will have her memory wiped and release her in a nearby town, as far away from the brothel as possible. And I will deal with the consequences of my actions, as they are punishable." He offers with a submissive bow of his head.

You do not like the sound of that. Next to dead, the last thing you want to be is on your own, and you have only just begun to recover some of your memories. Now you might lose them again?

What if someone in one of the towns recognizes you, tracks you down and returns you to the brothel?

"I will grant her sanctuary here." Lord Ainz declares, and you feel a suffocating weight lift from your shoulders.

_The Overlord decides he will entertain the idea and will allow her to remain, as this woman was harmless enough, but he cannot not further encourage the Butler to continuously bring home every battered human he runs across._

"And I will later discuss my terms with you, Sebas." 

_As a reprimand, cruel as it may be, he will not extend his kindness any further to grant her full protection in his name, as he graced Tuare with. He will speak with the Butler privately afterwards to relay the entirety of his decision, as he sees no sense in making the human feel more victimized than she already is._

The Devil steps forward and kneels before the skeletal king, and raises his head. "Most honorable ruler, might I make a somewhat selfish request?"

"You may, Demiurge." Lord Ainz permits as this piques his interest.

"I believe I have an employment opportunity for this human- I would like her as my personal servant." The demon bids.

_'Servant? I thought the job was for an assistant?'_

"I have watched her clean and deem her competent enough to keep my personal quarters tidy, and having her around would certainly lighten the amount of work placed on Pestonya and her staff." The Devil proposes.

The Elder Lich hums, and appears amiable to the demon's suggestion. "An excellent idea, Demiurge. And I'm sure as far as Pestonya would be concerned, it is not selfish at all. I grant your request." With that, Lord Ainz seals your fate.

You are partially relieved by his blessing of sanctuary, but also far from keen on being placed in the hands of the demon Tuare seems to be terrified of.

"My Lord, if I may suggest, I think she would fare better working in the kitchen alongside Tuare." Sebas counters. "They already know each other, and I feel she would be more comfortable working with her."

Demiurge cast an icy glare at the butler, and Sebas' eyes gleam defiantly in retaliation like polished steel.

"Oh? And what skills does she possess in cooking that you are aware of?" Demiurge inquires with a light air of sarcasm. "She has only proven adequate in cleaning thus far, so-"

"I'm sure with both Tuare and Pestonya to guide her, she will learn quickly." Sebas cuts him off.

"Enough, you two. I will enact a compromise." Ainz puts an end to their bickering. "She will work in the kitchen when she is finished with her duties on the 7th Floor, and therefore will be most useful to Nazarick. Demiurge, she is now assigned to you."

Sebas visibly bristles, but only for a fraction of a second and bites his tongue. He does not dare challenge his master's final decision.

"My most humble thanks for indulging, my Lord." The Arch Devil rises to his feet and bows once more at the waist and he flickers his gaze briefly at the Butler, and he allows himself the small luxury of a vindictive smirk.

"And fear not, Sebas. I promise to take _excellent_ care of her." The Arch Devil vows. His voice is warm silk, but there is a blade buried just beneath the surface.

The tension in the room is buttery thick, making you swallow nervously, and you see Sebas' frame almost tremble with barely-leashed rage; his hands clench into tight fists at his sides, but before the ruler he endeavors to withhold his composure.

What you, a lowly human wants, is apparently meaningless; how you feel about being handed over to the demon is not even discussed. The decision as to what would become of you is over in less than five minutes.

"Come, human, I will guide you to your quarters." The demon calls and saunters towards the exit with his hands clasped behind his back. His tail sways fluidly in a seemingly pleased manner, and you obediently follow closely behind your new Master.

You cast one last glance back at Sebas, who looks ultimately defeated. He eyes fall from yours and to the ground.

Seeing as you have no choice in the matter, you try to dilute your anxiety by looking on the bright side; perhaps this is a good thing. You have gained favor with a Guardian, as Tuare did, and you hope this will help ensure your safety in your new surroundings.

But it is that grim look on the Butler's face which prevents you from fully deceiving yourself; he looks as if you have been sentenced to the guillotine, rather than granted a new home.

You cannot shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

* * *

It is a long, agonizing journey from the throne room to the 7th Floor.

For the millionth time you curse the bastard who invented these heels.

The demon treads onward, navigating through the foreboding levels with purpose. You shadow him as closely as you can, just short of clinging to him out of anxiety of the situation and your new surroundings; with his tall, dark presence looming next to you, he provides the sensation of deadly support; warm, solid, _dangerous_. As if you are walking with an attack dog of the most fearsome breed at your side.

The Devil is the only anchor of familiarity you have left, but Tuare's fear of him also makes you tense with apprehension- but you would rather be walking with him than by your lonesome as you traverse lower and lower into the dark, humid maw of the earth.

The sconces of flame were the only feature of the dark corridor, and cast dancing shadows against the walls. Rather than illuminate, their flickering only seems to enrich the eeriness of the enclosed, tunnel-like path with a sickly jaundice glow. You pass the room he had you clean yesterday, and wonder just how far this tunnel goes...

You are relieved when the corridor empties into a more well-lit chamber. This place more closely resembles the great hall, but rather than the alabaster marble and velvet curtains which exude an air of luxury, this level is composed of pitted and scarred cobblestone. Lanterns hang suspended from the stony jaws of gargoyles perching upon a towering bookcase crammed full of leather-bound volumes, and cast fractured shards of light against the walls. You pass familiar end tables against either side of the bookshelf, but instead of displaying kintsugi vases or hand-carved sculptures, they are topped by tarnished candelabras streaked with melted candle wax. 

There is a atmosphere of medieval Gothic beauty which permeates this Floor. It is more akin to a castle than a Tomb. If the walls of stone could speak, you think they would whisper of the ages, of being built upon blood and bodies of the fallen. They are steadfast, clearly constructed for defense in an age defined by jealousy, greed and the rampant desire for power, as much as honor, nobility and loyalty to a crown.

You cannot help but ponder how it was all conquered and claimed, and how much of a hand your new Master had in its crumble.

Your feet are killing you by the time Lord Demiurge escorts you to your final destination, and your muscles wobble precariously; you're thoroughly winded. Your clothes stick to your skin and sweat beads on your forehead. It's sticky-hot on this level. Demiurge, however, maintains steady breath and has not even broken a sweat.

As a Devil, he must be immune to the heat.

"Here we are." He shows you into a small but cozy room. It is far more reserved than the rest of the Floor- so much so that it almost seems out of place in how normal it is. It contains a queen-sized bed, neatly made and crowned with an elaborate mahogany headboard, a small nightstand, a bureau that lacked a mirror and a round table with two straight-backed chairs nestled in the corner. There are no drapery or curtains- as there are no windows.

 _'No escape.'_ Your paranoia hisses. _'One way in, one way out.'_

The walls are bare stone, save for a few torch sconces, which are your only source of light; there are no pictures, no wallpaper, and the little room was like an oven. This chamber of the Tomb is quite warm, and it occurs to you that this must be the Floor with the sea of magma Tuare mentioned. You will have to strip the comforter off the bed before going to sleep or you just may cook to death. A large, rectangular hollow that is reminiscent of a walk-in closet is carved out of the wall, and it looks as though the frilly maid uniforms inside, all identical, will likely fit you better than this one. They are also a bit skimpier, although you do take into consideration that the design's practical purpose is to prevent you from overheating while working here.

But what thrills you most of all is that you now have a personal bathroom, complete with your very own shower. The counter and sink are gleaming white marble, and boast a ovular mirror, encircled by a frame of threadlike strands of gold, interlaced together in a mock-liana arrangement, and the walls of the shower are lined in handcrafted tiles.

 _'Maybe this won't be so bad after all!'_ You've found a silver lining.

"Has anyone given you a demonstration in how to operate the shower?" Demiurge inquires and motions towards it.

"Yes, Master, Tuare has. Thank you. I appreciate you giving me this opportunity." You bow deeply, and he acknowledges your gesture with a curt nod.

"Then I will allow you to get settled. Dinner will be delivered at 7pm, as I'm sure you will need this evening to adjust and recover." He concludes, and pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"Thank you again, Master." You say and bow, but he does not respond. The demon lets himself out and pulls the door to behind him.

As soon as he is out of sight, you shuck off your shoes and tear the comforter off the mattress and toss it into the closet before flopping unceremoniously onto the bed. Fuck, you are exhausted. You waste no time in slipping beneath the silk sheets, and it takes you all but two minutes to nod off.

_The Devil's crystalline eyes shamelessly skate over her prone body as she dozes, so blissfully unaware. Her feathery lashes fan over her cheeks and her deliciously plump lips are softly parted, and her hair spills in glorious disarray like molten gold over the goose down pillow. His gaze traces the gentle rise and fall of her rib cage, the dramatic dip of her waist, the climb of sweet curves that make up the roundness of her lovely hips._

_So small, so fragile. How easily he could break her..._

_And he will._

_He rests the steaming tray of food he brought on the table and stalks towards her_ _with leonine grace. The demon inhales, savoring the nectarous glow that is the scent of her skin._

_The cadence of her breathing deepens, growing heavier, signaling her descent into Rapid Eye Movement sleep._

_Into HIS realm._

Your nails sink into his biceps through the vermilion pinstriped material of his suit as he pulls your head back firmly by your hair, bowing your body just short of an unnatural arc. Claws hook into the front of your dress, and suddenly rake downward to severe the laces and he peels the silken garment open like a pea pod, exposing your top half.

You blush furiously but before you can react, the Arch Devil dips his head and sucks a rosy nipple in between his lips, and you feel his muscles flex languidly beneath your clutching fingers. A startled cry tears forth from your lungs as his scathingly hot tongue laves at your breast, and you gasp in what can only be described as bone-melting ecstasy.

Terror wars with alien rapture, swirling in a caustic and potent mixture in your veins.

You have never felt pleasure when being touched before- the clients at the brothel were sadistically cruel and selfish, only ever taking what they wanted, and they thrilled when you screamed and bled in the process. Not once had anyone touched you like _this_. The sensation short-circuiting your brain is utterly overwhelming and disarming in its decadence, and your mouth falls open as you pant in fearful anticipation. All coherent thought is wiped from your mind- you can't think of words or what they even mean.

 _"M-Master!"_ The only thing you can see or feel bursts forth, and his diamond eyes flash carnivorously at you.

He growls softly in response, and his tail snakes like a python around your waist, the iron plates rasping over the skirt of your shredded maid's dress to bind you to him. The appendage is remarkably strong, and makes you feel like a helpless bird trapped in the coils of a serpent. He winds his other arm around the small of your back, pulling you flush to him.

His embrace is hot steel- inescapable, but simultaneously so sweet and secure. Each swipe of his tongue is sinuous, and damningly addictive. He suddenly releases your nipple from his molten mouth.

Your eyes flick from the ceiling back to his, to see them glitter as an arrogant smile caresses his lips.

"That's a good girl," He purrs, his voice like the darkest of honeys dripping over your skin. _"Give in_ to me..."

You jerk hard and gasp, and the velvety veil of sleep slips away to reveal you are alone in your new bed.

Frantically, your eyes dart around in panic as you pant in a fog of foreign desire, struggling to wrangle your breath under control. An incessant throb pulses between your thighs. It's a sweet, fierce ache, and something primal hisses in the back of your mind that you have been somehow cheated... but you are at a loss as to how to assuage it. The glorious heat begins to fade, and you whine as your panties are awash in illicit warmth.

_'What the Hell was that about?!'_

What an insane dream. What he was doing... you wonder if it is even possible for that to feel good. No one has ever done... _that_ before. For you, sex and involved acts were always excruciating, something to recoil from and fear. 

Perhaps it was simply your dreams twisting what you know to be an abhorrent experience into something bearable with the devastatingly attractive Devil?

No, it was far more than just bearable. It was fucking _exquisite_.

But unfortunately, it was merely a dream.

_'Damn it.'_

* * *

_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend **The Discovery, by Ackriss** \- <https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151265/chapters/55407223>

Summary: Mysterious characters and cults. A figure who’s face he has yet to see.

And also **Monochrome** \- <https://archiveofourown.org/works/24062938/chapters/57908167>

If you have ever written a Demiurge story on Ao3, you have likely received a kudos or an encouraging comment from this sweet reader/author.

I don’t think I’ve ever read another Overlord fic where the main character is a vampire, and I absolutely love that and her unique and rather poetic approach to her story. Here's a snippet from The Discovery:

_“Thirsty. Unfulfilled. Unsatisfied. When the sweet honey finds it’s way down I become ravenous and delirious as I search for my next ‘fix.’_

_Then I lose the haziness as everything fades back to reality and I find that all is like it always has been the despair does not fail to fall on me. I rest back then think of the past that I’ve done and completed. All seems to fall to dust in time._

_My skin tingles and my throat tightens in the anticipation of the fantasy that does not hold up to my reality, the fantasy that I grow increasingly desperate to draw into the physical form._

_My blood grows tepid. A crawling sensation takes over. I throw my head down and count out all the memories. Then that familiar feeling resurfaces where it laid dormant, from the cold, despair, disappointment, and cruel contempt had frozen all the movement inside, leaving it cold, rotten, and devoid of life._

_Cold, dead eyes, their haunting visage have left my soul and me to feel as if there is not so much difference and holes to repair, almost as if I forget but then when my brain wakes up I remember again. Then I recognize it all over again as if new.“_

Her descriptions are vivid and just *chef’s kiss*. Seriously, ya’ll are missing out if you haven’t read it yet.

Below is a pic of Naroa from The Discovery. ♥

* * *

If you have a fanfiction on Ao3 and would like to be included, feel free to pm me on Tumblr with descriptions and/or reference pics. All are welcome! Let me state that these are not commissions, but gift art. ♥ Everyone in the fandom deserves a signal boost!

I cannot give a time frame yet as to when your piece will be done or what chapter it will be applied to, but I will let you know when it will be. :3


	6. Side Effects

Your breath departs on a weary sigh; there is no way you will be able to fall back to sleep after that. Reluctantly, you unravel out of your cocoon of sheets and swing your legs over the side of the mattress to crawl out of bed. The floor is pleasantly heated beneath your feet like sun-baked sand dunes.

You groggily shuffle to the bathroom and disrobe, desperate for a shower in hopes that it will help wash the startlingly sinful dream from your mind.

How will you ever face the demon again after that? To say you have a terrible poker face is an understatement. A groan of exasperation rolls through your throat- you just know you're going to madly blush as soon as you see him.

Cool water cascades over you, soothing your taut and aching muscles with gentle fingers of lukewarmth.

While you would love a hot shower, it's too warm on this level to comfortably enjoy one.

You dip your head under the spray, letting the water pour over your face and your lips part so you can breathe.

Taking your time to enjoy the supplied shampoos and fragrant soaps, you whip the bar into a lovely lather that smells of relaxing lavender and scrub down in slow circular motions. 

Showers are likely your new favorite thing, next to regular meals.

You finish rinsing off and turn the squeaky handles, shutting off the flow and then step out. A stack of fluffy towels awaits you in the cabinet to dry off with. After exiting the bathroom, you decide to see what the mahogany bureau has to offer, and relish the scent of lemon wood polish that wafts from the motion of the drawer being slid open. You poke around to find a lacy stack of neatly folded black lingerie, and you fish one of the pairs of panties out.

 _'And just where the Hell is my ass supposed to go?'_ You scrutinize it with a raised brow. Thongs were not an unfamiliar undergarment to you, but this here? This is frilly fishing line.

But with nothing else clean to wear, it'll have to do. You slip them on with a sigh in defeat.

Moving on to the closet hollow, you pull out one of the new maid's uniforms and squeeze into it. You are grateful that it laces up the front rather than the back, considering Tuare isn't here to help you. As you pull and tie the laces across your bosom, it cinches tight, encasing your curves in silk and cotton. You roll your shoulders slightly, feeling the fabric flex with your movements. You wonder how it could be so superbly tailored to your seemingly exact measurements... the disconcerting idea that they must have been taken while you were asleep flits through your mind.

You return to the bathroom to check your reflection, and it is exactly as you had suspected; while similar to your original uniform's design, there were key differences that make it considerably skimpier. The neckline is a plunging V and the hem of your skirt halts just barely at mid-thigh, allowing for legs for days. If you have to bend over for one thing or another, your Master is going to get one Hell of an eyeful of your goods. 

You regard the garment with doubt, and the fabric whispers as you run your fingers over the finely woven material that subtly gleams like polished obsidian. But you cannot deny that the design, while indeed scandalous, is much cooler that the original uniform. It allows for plenty of air flow and is composed of a more breathable material, which you are grateful for- the last thing you need is to have a heatstroke while working for the Devil. 

Unfortunately, your wardrobe at this point in time is limited. You have no choice but to wear what is supplied.

When you pass your bed on the way to visit the bureau once more to search for your stockings and garters, you are struck dumb to find a tray of food waiting for you on the little table.

_'He said dinner wasn't until 7pm.'_

What time is it? You cannot even begin to guess without the aid of a window to see the sky or the temperature drop of nightfall.

You are pleased to discover the tray presents a thick portion of flame-seared salmon drenched in a creamy garlic butter sauce and is garnished with a side of leafy greens, and it has been paired with a small glass of white wine.

Your mouth waters at the promise of food and drink, making your stomach clench with sudden hunger.

Cradling the delicate stem of the glass, you slowly bring it to your lips for a sip. The alcohol is sharp and clear, a perfect balance of sweet and tart. It is accompanied by a fierce sting going down, and you grimace- but you are far from caring at this point. Warmth blooms in your veins as the alcohol wraps your frayed nerves in a gauze of liquid comfort.

Next, you use the edge of your fork to cut into the fillet, and the meat falls apart in pretty blushing flakes. After swiping the tender morsel through a swath of creamy butter sauce, you bring it to you mouth. It's delicious and... disappointingly cold.

How long have you been asleep?

You take a few more bites and lick the richness of the garlic from your lips before nervousness twists your stomach into knots. What if you overslept and are late for your duties?

It would not be outside the realm of possibility- it would seem you have made a habit of oversleeping as of late.

You eat half of the fillet before anxiety wins out- you set down your utensil and decide to try to gauge what time it is. Perhaps you can find a window and see where the moon or sun currently hangs in the sky.

Stepping out of your room, you glance around. It is pitch as night out here, and dead silent. The sconces which had lined the wall had been extinguished of their fire, plunging the hall into darkness. You wander down the corridor and slide your hand along the balmy surface of stone as a guide, stumbling blindly in the inky and featureless black. Turning the corner, your eyes fall upon a broad, towering shape that is even darker than the surrounding penumbra. It damn near fills the breadth of the hall. You squint, straining your eyes.

Then it shifts.

_'Oh, fuck.'_

It's alive.

There isn't time to startle or even think as it rushes you, and you choke out a gasp of horror as you are suddenly seized and hurled up against the wall. The impact crushes the breath from your lungs and the back of your head hits hard, sending a bolt of pain down your spine.

Its grasping hands are talons, but far larger than your Master's- the fingers of a single hand engulf almost the entirety of your rib cage. The other pulls at the plunging V neck of your uniform with a decisive yank, and you cry out in shock as the laces are torn open. Panic charges through you as your feet dangle off of the ground. Heated breath huffs over your neck, and you resign yourself to the fact that you are about to be mauled to death by something you can't see. Your heart hammers desperately against your ribs, threatening to burst free of its cage.

"P-please-"

"Drop her this instant!" A vicious snarl of command rips through the air.

_'Oh, thank the gods!'_

The beast's shape freezes in place.

" _Now_ , Greed."

"Apologies, Lord." The unseen thing's voice is impossibly deep and gravelly. Carefully, it lowers you to the floor. "I did not know you had a new pe-"

"Silence! Return to your post." Demiurge snaps like a whip, and the claws release you instantaneously, as though you have burned him. Despite the monster's dominating size, the Devil is clearly in command here.

Firelight bursts through the dark, illuminating the massive creature that had you in its clutches in a flickering scarlet light. It is actually a _he_ \- his broad shoulders, biceps and forearms are donned in obsidian plate armor edged with gold, leaving the rest of his midsection open to reveal his immaculately chiseled abdomen, and massive webbed wings fold behind his back. His head of red flowing hair is crowned by long, curved horns and his six eyes flash scathing red. Fangs protrude from lips that curl in a wolfish snarl. He towers over your Master at nearly eight feet tall.

_'Holy shitwizard cuntbaskets...'_

A new level of fear flips your brain back on, and you rapidly recoil from your captor as soon as his iron grip releases, and retreat to the farthest wall. And you thought you shit a brick when you first saw Demiurge? This massive bastard could make a fully furnished brick house fall out of your ass.

"My sincerest apologies," Demiurge offers, and he approaches with a lit candelabra, melting out of the inky shadows as if they are a second skin. "Greed here is one of my personal body guards. After delivering your dinner I had matters to immediately tend to, and I fear I had not yet had a moment to relay to him that you will be staying here from now on."

The monstrosity named Greed respectfully lowers his head to the Devil and takes his leave, and you are left in stunned silence with shredded clothes and shaking like a leaf.

"I promise no one else will lay a hand on you- you are under my protection." He assures you, and motions towards your room. "You are free to return to your quarters."

You don't move. You _can't_. Your muscles are frozen with paralyzing fear and shock.

"I... I don't want to be by myself..." You whimper, thoroughly shaken, before you can consider the admission of weakness. Shored emotion releases all at once, and as you close your eyes to draw a shaky breath, a few tears of terror spill down your cheeks.

When the demon takes a prowling step forward, you instinctively step back; each muscle instantly reawakens, primed and ready to fly as you are suddenly overwhelmed by the impression that he's a predator and you are prey, backed into a corner with nowhere to run but straight into his awaiting jaws.

 _'Don't run, don't run...'_ Swallowing thickly, you clench your jaw, fighting your fight-or-flight reaction.

He halts, poised, and you see his muscles bunch and coil beneath his suit with mounting tension- like a stalking cat that has been spotted by his intended prey.

"Would you like me to stay with you until you fall asleep?" He offers, his voice softening with a passable semblance of concern.

This question disarms you- it muddies the waters of your apprehension and perception of him, and forces you to consider that if Lord Demiurge really intended to harm you, he simply could have allowed that monster to tear you apart.

But he _didn't._

Opposition roils within a cacophony of both desperation and hair-raising, instinctive alarm. You want to say yes- but something deep in your bones tells you that he's a wolf at the door, and you would be utterly insane to let him in.

And yet... he has been nothing but polite; he has offered you a job, taken you in, given you your own room, and he just saved you from being violently dismembered and devoured.

So, you sniffle and nod like a frightened child.

"Are you hurt?" The demon asks, moving with a slow and calculated approach, careful not to startle you further, and he rakes his eyes over your person to scan for injury.

"I... I hit my head kind of hard, but other that, I don't think so." You tell him and rub the back of your scalp.

"Here, drink this." The Devil produces a small glass vial from his breast pocket and passes it to you. It contains a dark red potion. "It will numb the pain and help you sleep."

"Thank you." Tentatively, you take it from him while trying to keep your ruined dress closed with your other hand. You uncork the top with your teeth and toss it back with a grimace. It is concentrated and bitter.

"Come," He takes the lead, the candelabra lighting the way, and you fall in line behind him to slink back to your quarters, haphazardly holding your shredded clothes together. "Lie down."

Obediently, you slip beneath the sheets to curl in a ball, and he sets the candelabra down on your nightstand so you can bask in a golden glow of comfort.

He takes his place next to the doorway, a silent sentry watching over you.

Again, you find yourself feeling reprehensible for misjudging him once again. 

"Thank you, Master. I-I'm sorry if I woke you." You murmur in shame, and shuffle further into the illusion of safety the sheets provide. "I didn't know what time it was, or if I may be late for my duties."

"You did not wake me. I do not require sleep as you do. It is seldom needed for my species- more of a luxury than a necessity." He muses. "As for the time, it is approximately 2 am."

 _'I was out for nearly 12 hours?! Damn.'_ You didn't mean to sleep so long. "I'm sorry. I normally don't sleep this much."

"No need to apologize. It is only to be expected. Your body needs time to fully heal." While the demon's voice takes on a clinical tone, his sense of understanding soothes your anxiety. "How is your recovery progressing?"

"Normally, I think." You inform him, and pull your pillow a little further under your head. "However, I... I _have_ been having strange dreams lately."

"Ah." The side of his mouth curls upwards, seemingly unalarmed. "This is a common side-effect of the healing potions."

 _'That's good to know.'_ You were beginning to worry it was the result of extensive brain damage.

"Will they stop when I am no longer taking them?"

"Most likely." He answers with a curt nod. "But dreams are nothing to fear. Just remember they cannot harm you, no matter how frightening or intense they may seem."

"I know..." You nodded and yawn, and settle deeper into the plush of the mattress.

Your breath steams in the bitter cold as you huff, fighting tooth and nail to rein in your fear. You pant heavily, your lungs burning from the icy chill in the air. With wide eyes, you scan the shadowy stretch of trees and smatter of thorny thickets before you. Moonlight streams through the nearly bare branches, dappling the forest floor with ever-changing lacy patterns of silver.

He must be behind you... or so you hope. Otherwise, you are approaching him head on, hurtling directly into his trap.

You know outrunning him is out of the question- four legs is always faster than two.

Ancient oaks stand tall, their bare branches stretching to scrape at the sky and creak ominously in the wind, and you flatten your back up against the rough trunk of the largest one to hide. From your lips cloud silver plumes and your chest heaves with exertion. You strain your ears to hear your hunter over the manic racing of your heart.

The forest is silent as the grave, save for the quiet breeze whispering and sighing through the branches, and rattling what few leaves still cling to life. Perhaps you lost him?

Adrenaline surges through your limbs, making your entire body hum with an electric charge.

A flash of orange, as bright and brief as the flicker of flame slithers in the thickets before you.

You burst forth in a sprint, racing for all you are worth through the dying foliage of autumn. Sharp branches whip at your face and sides, and you feel the sting of pink welts rise on your flesh.

Your heart thundering in your ears is deafened by a throaty roar.

The pounding gait of your pursuer grows louder.

As expected, you have no hope of outpacing him.

He's gaining on you, and you can feel the impact of heavy paws slamming upon the earth. You dare not look back, and focus solely on running without tripping over the gnarled roots jutting from the ground.

Hot breath huffs over the backs of your thighs as he closes in.

A strangled scream bursts from your lungs as a hard swat to your ankles throws you off balance and you tumble to the ground, face-first. You scramble, your hands and feet seeking purchase to no avail. Panic makes you wild, uncoordinated, and you only manage to thrash about. Claws hook into your sleeve and rip, and you feel the needle-like point of a talon pierce through the fabric and into your flesh with a burning sting. Every hair on your body stands on end, and your face tingles.

 _'This is it- this is where I am disemboweled!'_ Your fingers curl into the earth with intent to hurl dirt in his eyes as one last act of defiance, but your hands buzz with a bizarre numbness; rather than closing your fist around a handful, your digits only manage to twitch in the damp soil.

He roughly flips you onto your back.

As your eyes meet with your captor, you are stunned to behold not a beast bearing down on you, but Lord Demiurge.

The demon cages you beneath him with well-muscled limbs, keeping you pinned to the ground. His cheeks split open in the most wicked of grins, flashing rows of fangs that glint wetly in the pale light of the low-hanging moon.

A whimper catches in your throat, your breath unfurling in panicked curling wisps.

"Shhh..." He coos, and gently strokes your cheek with the back of his glove. "Be a good girl..."

After a few heart-stopping seconds, a euphoric, golden warmth slowly blossoms through your veins, making you feel pleasantly heavy, cementing your body to the prickly blades of dead grass. Your eyes roll in your head, and you jaw slacks. 

_'Oh...oh, this isn't so bad...'_ It reminds you of the bright glow of morphine that you were injected with at the brothel. It dulls the fangs of your fear, but does little for your confusion. Still.... fuck, this feels nice. Tension thaws from your body, further and further, until you think your muscles may melt right off your bones.

The claw of his thumb tenderly brushes the corner of your mouth, tracing the plump curve of your lower lip. His touch is light, gentle- he isn't hurting you. Why were you running from him again?

The Devil's gaze smolders into yours, dark and hungry. Your pulse kicks wildly as he slowly presses into your mouth.

"Suck." He hisses.

Your eyes shutter as your lips seal around his thumb, surrendering to his command. You flick your tongue over the buttery soft leather of his glove, closing your lips around the digit to suckle gently, and take him deeper into your mouth.

Hearing his sharp inhale, you cast your eyes up to see his lip curl, utterly hypnotized.

 _Enraptured_ by your mimicry of oral sex.

A shameful throb pulses between your thighs, allowing your mind to break the surface and you realize your complacency in falling under what must be a spell...

 _Or the effects of a drug_.

The idea of being drugged is a splash of cold water. You jerk your head back and suddenly withdraw, both terrified yet enthralled by the unfamiliar desire heating your blood and your chest heaves for breath.

"W-what...have you _done_ to me?" You choke out, helpless and trapped in the web of suspense he weaves.

Demiurge lowers his face to yours, and drags his tongue up the side of your cheek in dark promise.

You arch and gasp, unable to stop yourself as the alien inclination to wrap your arms around him and pull him closer overtakes you, only to learn that your limbs are dead weight. A soft laugh melts into your skin, his response to your reactions cruelly twisting a thorn of truth within your heart.

The truth that you _like this_ \- how his touch sets your flesh aflame.

He's so close you can practically taste the dark spice and masculine tang of his scent.

"Oh, little human..." He chides with a lithe chuckle, and he strokes his claws tantalizingly up your side, and you watch his tongue sweep over his fangs...

_"I've yet to even begin."_

* * *

_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend **Tales of Artorian,** by Download077! <https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738142/chapters/44447083>

### Summary:

Momonga remains at Nazarick until the end.

And you?

You just wanted to see the sunset on Midgard one last time.

...You should've stayed back at Nazarick.

Never once did you think that you'd find yourself so very far away from home.

Most of us know this lovely author for Child of Jormungandr, or Jormungandr's Chosen- both of which have been a massive inspiration for so many authors, including myself.

But guys- seriously, she's done so much more since then! Humanity, an in-depth story of Ainz learning what it means to be human once more, and even some kick-ass fics for Hazbin Hotel! Her work is amazing, and if you haven't read it, DO it.

Below is a drawing of Holly, and Pandora's Actor. ♥

If you have a fanfiction on Ao3 and would like to be included in Noteworthy Authors, feel free to pm me on Tumblr or comment with contact info and with descriptions and/or reference pics. All are welcome! Let me also state that these are not commissions, but gift art. ♥ Everyone in the fandom deserves a signal boost!

I cannot give a time frame yet as to when your piece will be done or what chapter it will be applied to, but I will let you know when it will be. :3


	7. All In Good Time

You awaken to the dying echoes of your moans. Bolting upright in bed, the rapid drum of your heart pounds as reality slowly clears the fog of your senses.

Eyes bleary, your head whips back and forth, convinced you will see the Devil lurking somewhere within the shadows your room.

But thankfully, you are alone.

You run a shaking hand through your mussed hair, awash in mortified disbelief of the dark nature of the dream. The palms of your hands sting, and you glance down to see little crescents from your finger nails scored deeply into your skin.

You must have been clenching your fists.

Not only that-

 _'What. The Hell.'_ Again, you find your panties uncomfortably heated with warm, curling... _something_ , but are relieved that you can move your body without feeling as if your arms and legs encased in stone.

The traitorous ache lingers, and you desperately want to lean into it. Yet something tells you it is wrong, that it shouldn't be there...

...but how can something wrong feel so exquisite?

Your chest constricts with anxiety- perhaps the most disturbing thing about these dreams is the disconnect between your body and mind - your flesh thrums at his phantom touch, melting beneath his fingertips while your brain back-peddles in protest, waging war with your body's response.

But it is merely a dream. Nothing more.

You are determined to think nothing of it, and blink rapidly. Your head is swimming.

Why do you feel so... _hazy?_

When did you even fall asleep? Your recollection is muddy- your mind feels as if it is wading through murk, blindly grasping beneath the surface to dredge up submerged memories.

A lingering bitterness rings on your tongue. You lick your lips, and... you recall being given a potion, and the Devil advising that they can cause vivid and unusual dreams.

Your gaze then settles upon the nearly empty glass of wine across the room.

 _'Ah. That explains a lot. Drugs and alcohol don't mix.'_ You scold yourself for not thinking twice before tossing back the potion.

You draw back the silken sheets only to see your uniform peeling down your front in shredded ruins, and for several heart-stopping seconds, everything seems to freeze: your heart, muscles, time itself, all of it.

It looks as though you were actually mauled by a tiger.

The jarring memory of why you drank one in the first place then comes flooding back, a vicious back-slap of reality.

 _'That's right...'_ A colossal fucking monster had attacked you- he slammed you into the wall and tore your dress open.

But Demiurge had come to your rescue when the beast was but a hair's breadth from tearing you limb-from-limb.

"Well... this uniform is trash now." You sigh, and crawl out of bed.

Stripping out of your dress, you trade it for a fresh one from the closet hollow, and hope it does not suffer the same untimely fate as the last. A bit of digging in the bottom drawer of the bureau yields your garters, belt and stockings, and you slip them on and latch them in place.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror does nothing further to bolster your mood.

Your hair is a rat's nest, and your features could use a bit of sprucing up with rouge. But luck is on your side, and after rifling around in the drawer nestled below the sink, you find an ivory comb and a few gold cosmetic pans and brushes in the bathroom cabinet. You begin combing and savor the relaxing stroke of the tines that detangle your hair until it glistens in burnished golden waves over your shoulders.

There is something about the feeling of sharp points ghosting over your scalp that you find oddly comforting... as to why, though, you cannot quite put your finger on.

Your attention shifts to the makeup, and you flip through the brushes until you settle on the one you want. Curiously, you smooth your thumb over the guard hairs- they're so soft... the ones used in the brothel were always old and crusty, shared by all, and replaced only once in a blue moon. They were made of what you are convinced to be boar's hair and were prickly and harsh to the skin. But these? They are made with tufts of fox fur and are absolutely luxurious.

You load a flat brush with a creamy hue and apply it from lash to brow line, and allow it to dry before powdering it over to keep sweat from causing it splotch later. A matte ochre orange is your choice for the crease, and a shimmering rose gold for the lid. You complete the look by drawing out the corner of your lash line with a slate grey, creating a sultry, smoky cat's eye.

Satisfied with your work, you select an especially fluffy brush and begin to swipe your cheeks with a shade of pearly pink as a finishing touch.

You look far more presentable now.

Your shift is likely to begin soon, if it has not already. Again, you are without a means of gauging the time. The candles of the candelabra have each burned down about a half of an inch, so you can safely assume it has been at least four to six hours.

Cautiously, you creak open your door and peer out. To your relief, the sconces along the walls have been lit once more, and the creature that had assaulted you is nowhere in sight. Still, deciding it is better to have something in hand than not, you pick up the candelabra and cautiously tiptoe from your room and survey your surroundings.

"Master?" You call, and your voice echoes into the silence.

The only sounds to be heard is the thud of your heart in your ears, the click of your heels over the cobblestone floor and the crackle of flame. You endure the withering stares of the stone gargoyles perched upon the bookcase, and notice the lanterns hanging from their jaws have been rekindled as well.

The Floor seems to be empty.

Your stomach suddenly clenches in a painful spasm around nothing. You are starving, and suppose you need to fetch breakfast- you didn't get to finish eating dinner, and after so many hours, the remainder of your filet of fish is certainly spoiled. Sliding your hand along the damp surface of the scarred and pitted stone wall, you melt into the darkness of the corridor leading away from the Devil's Floor. The flaxen firelight is your only means of seeing where you are going, and even with its aid, you must strain your eyes. You walk for what seems to be miles, and the bumpy and uneven earth is reason enough to fear falling and twisting your ankle- and with your luck, that is when Greed will make his grand entrance- when you are wounded, helpless and alone.

Your fingers clutch the candelabra tightly as you try to maintain your balance, and can only hope he took his Lord's warning to heart. If he decides to try to have another go at you, you fully intend to jam this candlestick up his ass.

A wave of relief washes over you when the seemingly endless corridor finally empties into the great hall, and you find your footing to be the familiar, smooth-as-glass alabaster marble.

The hair on the back of your neck stands on end when you cross what you deem to be the art gallery, and your eyes, as though magnetized, swing toward the omnipotent gaze of the black tiger. 

_'Tyger, Tyger, burning bright.'_

His eyes of fire watch as you anxiously pass, and you shudder.

Tuare's face alights and she throws her arms around you in a hug when you enter the kitchen.

"I'm so glad to see you! Are you alright? How did it go?"

You nod and chuckle weakly. "I'm...alive."

Tuare's brow knit with concern. "What does that mean?"

"Lord Demiurge has a personal bodyguard- eight feet of towering monster asshole, and he failed to tell him I'd be staying on his Floor. Greed, as he calls him, went into attack mode when I wandered out of my room last night." You tell her as you slip a copper pan off one of the hooks hanging overhead and lay it on the stove fire. "Luckily for me, Demiurge was awake and called him off."

Tuare's jaw drops. "But you are a guest of Lord Ainz! I cannot believe he dared to lay a hand on you!"

"I suppose no one bothered to inform him." You shrug, and select a tawny, speckled egg from a ceramic bowl on the granite countertop, and then break it into the pan. It sizzles with a hiss.

If there is one thing you know how to make, it's scrambled eggs.

"Did he hurt you?" Tuare's eyes shimmered with worry.

"I hit my head when he slammed me against the wall, but Lord Demiurge gave me a healing potion afterwards. He even stayed in my room until I fell asleep." You reply with a small smile. That really was most considerate of him.

Tuare stiffens. "You know... I never did get to finish telling you who he is before you were summoned to the throne room."

That's right. She didn't. "Who is he?"

"He's the one," Her voice drops low, as though she is afraid the Devil will somehow overhear her. "... who suggested killing me outright when I was first brought to Nazarick."

Your heart plummets through the floor.

"And I've heard rumors..." Tuare furtively glances around the room to make sure no one is within earshot. "-that he _experiments_ upon humans and heteromorphs alike. While I cannot be certain that it isn't merely gossip, he is a demon, so I wouldn't put it past him."

 ** _'I like to think of myself as...a medical scientist, of sorts.'_** You recall his words, as well as the tray of menacing tools, the human-sized table, and pile of femurs.

"It's true." You whisper with a thick swallow, and her eyes blow wide with shock. "I've seen his tools. But he says his experiments are performed only on cadavers, and the knowledge he gained from them is how he knew to save us both when we arrived here in critical condition. I think he's a doctor."

Hard suspicion flashes over Tuare's features, and suddenly a memory floats to the surface.

"I... actually recall hearing his voice as I was fading in and out when Sebas first brought me here." You admit and dig out a utensil from a drawer beneath the granite countertop to scramble the egg. "He did something to save me, I just don't know what."

Tuare hums with contemplation. "I unfortunately don't remember anything before awakening- I only recall memories after my healing. So, I cannot confirm or deny if he did anything for me."

You worry at your lower lip, and wonder if it was nothing more than yet another dream.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to scare you," Tuare lays a hand reassuringly over your shoulder. "but I do want you to be careful. He is dangerous, and I don't want you to get hurt."

You nod, but still find yourself wanting to give the Devil the benefit of the doubt. "I will."

When your breakfast of eggs is cooked, you sit with Tuare to catch her up in detail as to how your first day on the Seventh Floor went.

The heavy stone of anxiety in your stomach lifts a little in her sunny presence. Gods, it is so good to see her again.

"That's great that you have your own room! I have to stay in a common room with the other maid staff. While I have my own bed, we all share a bathroom, kitchen and closet." Tuare says, and your stomach turns a little as you recall a similar arrangement in the brothel. Suddenly you are twice as grateful to have one of each to yourself.

"Speaking of which, I see he provided you with a new wardrobe," Tuare's eyes flicker over the plunging V of your new uniform and she takes a sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

You sigh and press your lips together with a light blush. "I know, it's ridiculously revealing. But it is also _unbearably hot_ up there. I think that sea of magma you mentioned flows right under my floorboards." You say, spearing a bite of eggs onto your fork. "While I'm sure the design of this uniform is mainly to prevent overheating, I will not deny the likelihood that he enjoys a peek-of-ass-cheeks as well."

With a most unladylike snort, Tuare chokes on her juice and you both have a hearty laugh.

* * *

After breakfast, you bid Tuare goodbye with a promise to see her later this evening and reluctantly drag yourself back to the Devil's domain. Armed with a fresh rag and feather duster, you start in the common room of the Seventh Floor and go to work dusting the overly-crammed bookshelf. All of the titles are unfamiliar to you, but a few pique your curiosity.

_A study of human anatomy. Walking the astral plane. The life cycle of Incubi and Succubi. Paradise Lost. The woven web of dreams._

You are tempted to pull one out and flip through it, but know better than to fondle what isn't yours, so you try to fill the void of unsettling silence and drown the temptation by humming to yourself.

"When you finish up here, I would like you to clean my personal chambers."

Your heart launches itself off a cliff and your stomach flips into your throat, and you damn near drop the feather duster for the millionth time.

_'Fuckpuddle Tittysprinkles! Someone needs to put a bell on him!'_

It is so unnerving how quiet he can be. He walks on velvet feet, like the ghost of a stalking panther.

"...Yes, master." Swallowing thickly, you turn towards him and favor him with brief eye contact, and then promptly drop your gaze. You are gradually learning to look him in the eye, as he prefers. But meeting his startling gemstone gaze takes a unique brand of courage, and you feel your heart liquefy in your chest under the heat of his scrutiny.

The Arch Devil lets out a lithe chuckle, his lips curling in amusement to reveal pearly white fangs.

Instantly, you are reminded of last night's bizarre dream.

_**'I've yet to even begin.'** _

_'Oh, gods, don't blush, don't blush-'_ Panic surges through you.

"You seem to be rather nervous. Do I frighten you?" He teasingly asks as he steps closer to narrow the distance between you to a mere three inches. You feel yourself shrinking beneath his shadow as he underscores your size difference. At six foot two, he is at least two heads taller than you, maybe three. You have to crane your neck just to meet his eyes.

You draw a staggering breath, and-

 _'Oh... oh, he smells so good.'_ Like thick, dark spice, scorched sandalwood and wildfire, with a tang of masculine musk.

He cants his head slightly, reiterating that he is expecting a response.

 _Oh._ You have almost forgotten he had asked a question.

Would he be angry if you said he _absolutely_ scares the shit out of you, but you are strangely and continuously having the most inappropriate dreams involving him, and it's making it impossible to think straight in his presence?

Quite possibly.

It is safer to lie, so, you do.

"...N-no." You whisper, meekly looking up at his towering form, determined not to shy away from his stare this time.

The look he then levels you with freezes the blood in your veins, and the sense of boldness you possessed just moments ago instantly drains. His eyes narrow and his mouth quirks into a leer as he regards your shaky response. Under the menace of that relentless diamond gaze, you are paralyzed.

Demiurge's arm suddenly shoots forward, seizing you by your shoulder and the claws of his other hand spears through your golden locks, clenching tightly. A yelp of shock flees your throat as he roughly yanks your head back, exposing your vulnerable jugular, and then he lunges.

_'He's going to tear my throat out!'_

He dips his face down into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, scenting you like a predator.

You still as the compassion he displayed last night passes from his demeanor like light from the sun eclipsed.

"Now, why would you lie to me, _hmm?"_ His hiss slithers in your ear. "I thought we had an understanding... and you- well, you reek of fear."

The demon's tongue lashes out in a scathing lick, your flesh sparking where he connects, sending your senses reeling in a downward spiral. Then comes the velvet slide of his voice.

"I can even taste it; it is so strong."

You tremble in his iron grasp, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end; his breath on your throat is hot as it fans over the sensitive skin and your face goes numb with fear and... something else which you can't identify.

"I strongly advise against attempting to deceive me, little human. Because chances are, I will know the truth." His words are silk but threaded with steel. And with that, he unhands you.

 _'Little human.'_ Never has he uttered those specific words aloud before, but you _know_ he called you that in your dream last night.

For at least three minutes you are numb; frozen in place like a deer in the headlights- it even escaped your attention that the Devil had walked away. Your heart threatens to pound out of its cage and chilly, nervous sweat trickles down your neck. Your breath coarsely stutters from your lungs as you realize you are alive, and he has not hurt you.

But you were so sure he was going to strangle you.

The predatory intent in his voice and gestures shake you to your very core. He is more animal than man; you sense a powerful and violent demeanor loosely wrapped in a thin veil of composure.

Now you are absolutely terrified to set foot into his quarters alone, but you have no choice.

_'Just do it. Go in, clean, and get out.'_

You take your time finishing the common room, desperately trying to wrangle your anxiety under control. When it is spotless and you have no further excuse to delay his request, you take a deep breath and approach the towering twin doors to his chambers-

...and pause when you behold the immaculately crafted relief carving of Chinese dragons etched into the wood; Their lips are drawn back into wolfish snarls, and every individual scale of their bodies, as well as the ridges of their wickedly curved horns and dorsal spines have been expertly whittled by hand and lacquered for a gleaming effect. Most captivating of all is their eyes- the one on the right is inlaid with glittering diamonds, and the left is embedded with sapphires of ocean blue. The talons of their right hands bridge the narrow gap between the doors to clasp together, while they reach for each other's throats with their other. Their tails coil and intertwine into a double helix spiral.

_'War and peace.'_

How befitting for a Commander of Defenses.

After admiring the sheer artistic skill and countless hours which must have gone into crafting such a majestic masterpiece, you use a trembling hand to knock, and hope to the gods he doesn't answer. Much to your dismay, he does, and you are granted permission to enter.

Meekly, you take a step inside to find him folded in a chair with a parchment scroll unfurled in his hand, quietly reading, his armor-plated tail twitching restlessly behind him. While his seated position is less threatening, it is not enough to encourage the drop of your guard. He remains a beast at rest.

You slowly kneel to him, and he permits you to rise with a brief motion of his hand; as you do, you take in your surroundings.

 _'Holy shit.'_ Your heart freezes in your rib cage and panic spills into your veins, cold and paralyzing.

There are no fewer than two hundred skulls and miscellaneous bones, inhuman and human, everywhere. Displayed on the dressers and desk, hanging on the wall, and just about anywhere there is free space. Your stomach churns with fear and you fight the impulse to bolt.

Gulping, you then notice upon closer inspection that the very chair he is reclined in as he peruses over a scroll, seemingly preoccupied, is entirely constructed of artistically arranged spines, ribs and femurs.

An icy tingle numbs your face as the color drains away from it.

Every fiber of your being screams at you to run from this place, but you know that is the worst thing to do in the presence of predator.

"Do not fear- they are merely tools of scientific study." The Devil informs you when he sees your eyes swimming with anxiety.

"Do you see this one here?" He queries, and reaches to tap his claw on the polished cranium of a small skull resting as a paperweight on the corner of his desk.

"Look closely- Craniosynostosis affected this unfortunate specimen. It is a congenital deformity of the infant skull that occurs when the fibrous joints between the cranial sutures close prematurely. Due to this closure, the infant develops an abnormally shaped skull because the bones do not expand with the growth of the brain." He clinically explains.

You can only swallow around the lump in your throat and tightly nod in reply, but you know the look of watery skepticism is likely written all over your face.

 _'Is your fucking throne of death for scientific study too?'_ You're tempted to ask, but you do not believe he will see the humor in it.

The way your gaze flashes over the morbid furniture does not go unnoticed, and he chuckles.

"Waste not." He seems to read your thoughts, and yet, his remark begs for clarification- but he only favors you with his signature vulpine smile, his eyes dancing with mirth.

His eyes then lazily travel the length of your body, shamelessly tracing your curves.

Apparently, the joke you made to Tuare is 100% accurate- that the uniform's design isn't purely functional, but indeed at least partially for his viewing pleasure.

To exacerbate the situation, the tip of his tongue slips down the curve of his canine, reminding you of the way it had curled around your breast in the first dream you had involving him.

_'Oh, gods- oh, no...'_

You are powerless against the heat you feel creeping up your neck to light your cheeks in scarlet, and a throbbing heat rapidly unfurls from between your thighs as the phantom of his tongue laves over your pebbling nipples.

Utterly mortified by your body's response, you can only stand there, mouth agape in stunned silence.

You see the claws of his free hand curl into a bruising grip over the skull crowning the armrest of the chair, and you tense; but he does nothing more.

"You may begin." Demiurge prompts, snapping you out of it and you suddenly remember you are here to clean.

"Y-yes, Master."

 _'What the actual fuck was that?'_ Only after awakening from those dark dreams did you feel that hot, urgent pulsing between your legs... so why is it happening again now? Your mouth is suddenly bone dry and you forcibly shove your concern for your sanity into the back of your mind and try to focus on your duties instead.

With small, hesitant steps, you begin to explore the polished expansiveness of his personal chambers. Beneath the chaotic order of scattered ivory, the place is actually quite elegant and spacious, furnished with sleek, black leather settees strategically positioned before a roaring fireplace.

Steeling your nerves, you go to work dusting every surface of the furniture and the morbid decor of creature remains, and struggle not to tremble like a leaf as you gaze into the hollow eye sockets of the human skulls that seem to emptily stare back at you.

You cannot help but ponder if they are the remnants of servants who had met their fate after failing or offending the Arch Devil in one way or another.

Paintings hang above the richly carved stone mantel, and white powdered ash from the burning logs crowds within the crevices and grooves. The dancing fire licks and spits at the curved ceiling of the hearth with glowing, bright golden flame as it devours the thickly cut wood.

A glimmer of warmth catches your eye, and you turn to see a dining alcove that boasts a hand-carved table of varnished burgundy and matching chairs reflecting the scarlet firelight.

Down an entryway is the master bedroom, with an emperor-sized, four poster bed with red satin sheets and draped in a canopy of black, frothy netting. It is opulent and ornate, and punctuated with twisting columns of dark mahogany of each of its four corners. It is positioned opposite to arched balcony doors so he can lie abed and see the sky.

So, there _is_ a means of telling time here, after all.

"Would you like me to clean the bedroom, Master?" You ask, hoping to get a glimpse of the view from the window.

"No, thank you. For now, it is off limits." He politely declines, and fluffs the scroll to read further down.

 _'Damn it.'_ You nod, and continue cleaning.

As you skirt past an armoire, you step in something sticky. Your gaze drops to meet with a large, dark stain on the wooden floor, possibly a spilled black coffee.

"I would like you to scrub that before you leave." Your master requests, and you jolt. "The maid's supply closet is down the main corridor and to the left."

Your back is to him, so you can only imagine the amused grin that crosses his face when he no doubt sees you jerk with a start.

"Yes, Master." You crouch down and unfasten the many straps of your heels and slip off your shoes, so as not to track the mystery stain, and are thoroughly relieved to have the opportunity to step out of his graveyard of a room in order to retrieve a bucket of water and a scrub brush, even if it is for just a few precious minutes.

Once outside his quarters, your breath bursts from your lungs in a whoosh and your heart thunders uncontrollably as your composure temporarily crumbles.

 _The way he was looking at you..._ like he wanted to _devour_ you... his gaze was hot enough to melt you to the bone. 

You make your way on gelatinous, quivering legs to the maid's closet to collect the necessary cleaning supplies. The idea of hiding out in here is appealing, but if he can really smell your fear, you know he will find you in no time and worse, you will be cornered.

You gather the supplies, and dump a jug of distilled water in a steel bucket, and empty a glass container of white vinegar and a container of cleaning solution into it.

Quickly but reluctantly, you return, then kneel in preparation to scrape at the stain.

Of course, as you feared, both the low-cut top of your uniform and gravity are determined to work against you; your breasts threaten to tumble out.

Terrified you will catch his intimidating gaze on you, you keep your eyes averted from his and make a point not to look at him.

Suddenly, your blood alights with adrenaline; now that you are closer to it, the soured coppery smell and deep burgundy color makes it frighteningly obvious that it is not a spilled coffee as you initially thought, but a blood stain, maybe a week or two old. And by the size of it, someone has likely died.

It has not even been wiped, and it brewed in the unforgivingly humid heat of this level; but rather than drying, it coagulated into a rancid, tacky pool. It occurs to you to wonder if he had left it here purposefully, as a reminder that it can just as easily be yours, should you fuck up somehow.

_'Don't think about it, just clean it and leave.'_

You whip the water into a soapy lather with the stiff-bristled scrub brush, and lean forward on all fours. It smells gods-fucking-awful, like death warmed over, and you fight the urge to gag tooth and nail. You scrub what you can as you face him, but to complete the job, you will have to have your back to him. There is only so much you can get from one direction as it is oddly placed and collides with a baseboard.

 _'Fuck.'_ Hesitantly, you turn the opposite way.

He is definitely going to get an eyeful.

* * *

_The Devil can see how badly she wants to run when she lays eyes upon his countless trophies. He deflects with the perfectly logical explanation that they are mere tools of scientific study, but that is only partially true.  
_

_Oh, how he wants to gloat that these are the bones of those who dared to disrespect the name and glory of Ainz Ooal Gown. He permits a brief flash of fangs, acutely attuned to her suspicion and he reminds himself not startle her. He licks his teeth, and...  
_

_....the_ _tempo of her heart quickens with a sudden, thick tang of arousal which laces the bright citrusy sweetness of her scent, making his mouth water. It is all he can do not to allow the chains of his self control to slip from his grasp.  
_

_**'Not yet...'** He digs his claws into his ivory armrest with a white-knuckle grip as he silently coaches his restraint.  
_

_He needs space. NOW.  
_

_"You may begin." He prompts, and she takes that as her cue to proceed with her duty._

_Demiurge observes her from the corner of his eye, as she hurries around with a feather duster, flicking it over the various surfaces delicately like a little bird, occasionally glancing his way but adamant not to make eye contact. She is obviously eager to flee, but still manages to do a thorough job and knows better than to shirk her tasks._

_Good. She's efficient in the face of imminent danger, if nothing else._

_But that maid's uniform which is perfectly tailored is nothing short of torture. He deems it Pestonya's finest work to date-_ _its corset-style bodice_ _shows a lovely portion of cleavage and clings flatteringly to her shape, accentuating her tight stomach. The scandalously short hem of the skirt allows him to clearly see garters at the tops of her thighs, securing a pair of coal black stockings with a delicious seam running up the back of each leg._

 _She then asks if he would like her to clean his bedroom- but the demon declines. He has yet to have the headboard replaced, which is still heavily streaked in claw marks after Malphas' last visit. He'd prefer not to answer the questions which were sure to be raised regarding their origins as of yet._   


_Her movements are cautious and tightly wound with tension, her eyes flickering over the empty sockets and grinning jaws of the skulls.  
_

_When her heels stick to the bloodstain pooled before his armoire, he requests that she clean it. She immediately complies and asks no questions.  
_

_**'She is likely thrilled to have an excuse to leave.'** He tells himself, and expects he will have to chase after her when she doesn't come back._

_But lo and behold, as though to prove him wrong, she returns shortly after with the cleaning supplies, and she crouches down to scrub at the stain.  
_

_Her nose wrinkles just slightly with revulsion and she pales when it dawns on her what exactly it is she is looking at, and yet she continues to boldly stand her ground while doing her best to maintain a poker face.  
_

_**'Impressive.'**   
_

_When she stretches out to position herself on her hands and knees, his groin throbs_ _as_ _he sees how her breasts threaten to spill out of her top and he feels a lump of pure, distilled lust rise into his throat and lodge itself there._ _Demiurge_ _wonders what it might feel like to pull her into his lap to feel her curves beneath the paper-thin lace._

 _He had expected her to face him the entire time out of fear of taking her eyes off of him, but much to his surprise and pleasure, she does the complete opposite._ _She turns around and leans further forward, putting her back into it; her skirt hikes up to reveal that she even put on the lingerie supplied for her- a mere scrap of lace, just barely hiding the blushing pink of the silken flesh at the apex of her thighs._

_The demon watches intently with the unblinking, carnivorous stare of a shark as she treats him to a fabulous show of her perfectly heart-shaped ass, framed in white silk ruffles and bare except for where her black garter straps bisect each cheek from the tops of her stockings to the connect with the hidden belt. His tongue sweeps over his fangs._

_The thought of holding her thighs apart and tugging aside her panties so he can swipe his tongue up the length of her slit flits through his naturally sinful mind. Instead he licks his lips, and grins a wolfish grin._

_All in good time._

* * *

_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend **_Curse Of Eden, by JoJo419!<https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514566/chapters/48687098>  
_**

_Summary: Marie had been there for Momonga since the guild was created, and while she joined later she made certain she would be there for him when it all ended. After all, she refused to abandon one of her closest friends - shoot, she considered him practically family._

_Now if someone could tell her why she was now apparently stuck in her avatar, in the game, that would be GREAT._

This story has the first Overlord OC I've ever seen that is a Gorgon- call me biased, but as a snake lover/keeper, I was already like fuck yeah, this is gonna rock! 😂

Here is a drawing of Blaze Watergem:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in the next chapter, we're going to be seeing Ulbert!
> 
> It's gonna get nasty, ya'll.


	8. Our Little Piece Of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Datsonyat and Kawaii Pigeon for making me love Ulbert. ❤️ So here's some filthy, delicious Ulbert/reader pr0nz for you all.

The scorched sky looms heavily overhead as you creep through the rubble of the wasted metropolis. Weaving between the collapsing behemoths that litter the burning Hellscape, your heart races as you leap over the winding rivers of magma that snake through the ruins like veins of liquid gold.

The air is anointed with the sharp tang of smoke that stings your lungs and the mineral taste of pulverized stone coats your tongue with each breath.

Thus far, you have managed to elude him, but can sense him nearby- that swarm of dark menace that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

Towering on both sides are crumbling alabaster statues, their Grecian likenesses weathered by time and the elements. Even without faces, the featureless deities impose a daunting presence; and while one may think their withered stares should bring a sense of foreboding, for you, they do not.

One marble idol, your favorite- is battle-scarred with cracks and gazes down at you with a sphinx-like stare. Unlike the rest of the statues, massive bat-like wings sprout from his back and curve around his Adonis-like form. He's magnificent. You think him to be a portrayal of the fallen angel Lucifer, and you reach to trace his jaw with your fingers.

Before you can make contact, an arm wraps around your waist from behind. You jolt and squeal in surprise, and your eyes drift downward to see a large hand armed with scythe-like, golden claws.

It all but engulfs your own, and you feel the untold power that strains at his edges, embodying the shape of black fire.

_'Inhuman, yet so warm, so strong.'_

The evil radiating from him causes some unnameable thing to stir and uncoil to life in your breast.

"Found you, babe..." The husk of his voice, oozing with black satisfaction murmurs in your ear. "And I caught you first, so you know what that means; I win. And to the _victor..."_

He always wins this game. But only because you let him- the only advantage he holds over you is his immeasurable strength and acute sense of smell. Even on a bad day, you would have no trouble outfoxing him.

Still, it's more fun this way.

"Go the spoils." You finish his sentence with a lick of your lips.

A rough push on your shoulders forces you down, and the rocky shards of debris bite into your bare knees.

_'Let the game begin.'_

He circles around you, a stalking predator immaculately dressed in black; his crimson cape trails behind him like a curtain of crushed velvet, the hem brushing over the scorched earth; a stark contrast of luxury among devastation- and he carefully threads his fingers through your hair.

Your heart skips with a forbidden thrill- you love how he towers over you as you kneel, and how his hands that stroke so sweetly are weapons in of themselves. But he harbors a flame of beneficence for you, and trust that he will take care not to mortally wound you.

Ulbert Alain Odle cares for what is his, after all.

This is the game you both live to play; _Predator and Prey-_ and at its heart is danger and temptation. It's laced in nitroglycerin, unstable and explosive, yielding a rush like no other, to know that one fatal slip of his blades or fangs can spell disaster.

He uses a claw to gently brush over your cheek, his tenderness belying his intent- he's fallen into his Dominant mindset, and his visible eye gleams like molten gold, matching the hue of the polished brass of his avian half-mask, as well as the frame of the clock adorning the beau hat that is nestled between the wickedly curved horns of his head.

Gods, he's sexy.

His hand then clenches into a fist and he harshly yanks your head back to stare down at you, his black lips curving into a haughty smirk to display jagged fangs, and the aggression in his gestures sends a sharp thrill peeling down your spine.

_'Yes.'_

He uses his unforgiving grasp to tow you further forward, and your eyes settle on the bulge of his crotch.

"You know what to do." It is not an insinuation, but a command. He then opens his trousers to expose his sleekly furred sheath, which is already swelling with his hardening shaft within.

_'Oh, yes.'_

Your mouth waters with anticipation and you reach for him to slowly stroke, loving the sensation of the protective skin gliding over the slick member inside.

He groans, and he lightly pets your hair in encouragement as your ministrations tease out the tapered head of his cock. Leaning forward, you swipe your tongue over it and dip into the slit.

Ulbert gasps, and rocks gently against your face. Your nails sink into his hips as you seal your lips around him and suck, causing him to rapidly thicken and emerge from his sheath. His tip fattens to form a spade-shaped head with flared glans.

You can see it, inch by inch, as the ruby length of his cock shortens, and the black fabric of his trousers closes in on you when you take him deep into your throat.

He slides in and out with smooth strokes, and you relish the way his shaft swells over your tongue and wet sounds of him fucking your face.

Ulbert holds your head almost lovingly, pumping into your mouth with soft little grunts and growls of delight that make your folds drip with envy.

It's a good thing he instructed you not wear panties today, or they would be utterly ruined.

"You should see how your throat swells when I'm buried in you... you're taking me so well." His praise drips down your spine like the darkest of honeys.

His hands are ever-moving on your face and his claws brush your hair back to gather your locks into a ponytail, and he uses the point of one gilded talon to cradle your chin, tipping upwards slightly. "I'm going to fuck you so hard," He vows with a menacing grin, his strokes whipping wetly in and out of your mouth.

You moan around his spear of his flesh as your body purrs in response to his profane promise, and a fresh surge of wetness drips from your open thighs, forming a little pool of desire on the burnt earth.

Never in your life, here nor outside of Yggdrasil, has anyone been able to turn you on like this. Is it his commanding presence? The devilish shape he takes? Or how he always knows exactly what you need?

You want to say all of it.

Ulbert grew to be the heart of your universe within the short span of a month, and you log in to meet with him every day after getting off of work.

Lately, he has been teleporting you to the Burning Temple within Nazarick, his personal playground.

"Are you ready?" He huffs, thrusting harder now, and you nod the best you can.

Ulbert withdraws, letting you suck in several sputtering lungfuls of air.

* * *

Demiurge watches with heated interest as his Lord displays his sexual prowess upon a female.

The Devil finds himself admittedly puzzled by his Lord's choice, however; in fact, he is equally as curious as he is appalled to learn that his divine creator has taken a mortal woman, of all things- an utterly inferior species, as his mate.

_'But why, in all Nine Hells, would he select a human for such an honor?'_

He is torn in a way he never has been before, and he scolds himself for daring to bring his Lord's decisions into question.

Ulbert Alain Odle is wise, infallible, for that matter- and Demiurge is adamant that if he chose her to be his, there must be a higher reason. Perhaps there is something special about her that he has yet be made aware of? Or maybe she is leverage of some nature, or he has ineffable plans for her? Surely, there is something that he deems worthwhile or he wouldn't sully himself or his domain by human contact.

Still, the Devil scrutinizes her with an arctic gaze.

She is donned in light armor. A layer of black and scarlet banded mail and a corset beneath her weak shell of protection accentuates her lithe figure and cinches a silk wrap that flows over the flare of her sweetly rounded hips. A row of daggers glitters about her left thigh, and her hair of spun gold flows freely around her shoulders.

A pretty thing indeed, and yet so utterly unworthy of his Master's words, much less sacred touch.

The human serves him on her knees, the only position the Devil finds befitting before his glorious Lord. Her long fingers massage his furred sheath, teasing out his thickening red shaft to reverently lave the length of him with her tongue, and Ulbert bucks into her mouth with a groan, murmuring praises. His hand of gilded blades rests carefully at the side of her head, controlling her speed and depth.

Demiurge cannot deny that she is indeed unusual, as she seems to lack proper fear of Lord Ulbert, and clearly finds pleasure in what she is doing. The typical human would recoil in terror from him, as they should, but this one not only holds her ground, but leans into his touch. If the demon could not smell her arousal, he'd think it nothing more than a whore's act for coin.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard," Ulbert growls, and his nostrils flare like a predator smelling blood on the wind. "Are you ready?"

She nods the best she can with his cock stuffed in her mouth, and he pulls her to her feet.

_'Fuck?'_

Demiurge has never heard this term serve as a verb before- only in passing, and typically regarding crude insults from Lord Peroroncino among his comrades. What is it to 'fuck?'

"Such a filthy girl," He hisses and crashes his muzzle into her lips. "...sucking me so prettily, like an obedient Pet should."

 _'Ah._ ' Now it makes sense to the Devil. She is not his mate, and indeed remains his inferior- she is but his consort, his _plaything_.

 _A human as a pet!_ What a deviously delicious idea!

He must have trained her well to be so compliant as to serve his carnal whims.

A moan accompanies his wave of heated desire, and without breaking stride at her lips, Ulbert allows his hands to wander, gently cupping the slender column of her throat with his blades, then lazily sliding around to trace the curve of her spine. She arches into his touch, threading her fingers through his gunmetal gray fur before closing them into loose fists as he deepens the kiss. His hands stray low to ruck up the silk wrap-around of her skirt and squeeze the creamy globes of her ass.

"Ulbert!" She breathes.

Demiurge feels a hot spike of rage pierce his chest- she dares to address him so formally! And yet his Lord finds no error in it?

 _"Mmm..._ you like that, don't you?" He purrs, loving how his name sounds on his lips, and he peels off a deadly glove with his teeth to tease a digit through the glistening petals of her sex. She wears no undergarments, which seems to please the Supreme Being greatly. Ulbert's eyes of Hellfire and hour-glass pupils burn into hers.

"Yes!" Her legs wrap around his waist as he lifts and crushes her into a crumbling pillar.

"I would say so," Ulbert chuckles. "You're so wet for me..."

She murmurs pleading words, desperate for more of his touch, and they gasp together when Ulbert then impales her onto the curve of his tapered shaft.

"Holy Hell, you're tight..." Ulbert seethes as he begins to move, curling his hips into hers.

He ravishes her, delivering his cock with hard, but measured strokes. She moans, arching gracefully, full lips parting as she gasps for air, breasts thrust forth in the most pleasing of offerings to his ravenous mouth.

The Devil's then heart drops as she raises her eyes to stare at him while his Lord fucks into her, and bites the bridge of her shoulder. In that moment, the Devil feels several emotions swirling in a caustic, potent mixture in his veins.

Jealousy of her position. Arousal. Envy of his Lord. Desire.

The Devil's blood heats at the carnal display, the Incubus in him riled beyond belief, but alas, he can do nothing as he watches his Lord whip his cock up into her in a brutal frenzy. He has not been given orders to move. The demon remains as still and rigid as the surrounding statues, but feels his groin throb as he internally fights tooth and nail to avoid an erection.

Amidst the dizzying sprawl of her moans and Ulbert's hard, animalistic bites, they rip away one another's clothes and armor, each article falling to the scorched earth to join the pile of discarded inhibitions.

The atmosphere is buttery thick with the scent of arousal, sweat, and pheromones; it is absolute torture for Demiurge's heightened senses. His mouth waters and his nostrils flare. Again, the female's eyes of striking cobalt blue peer over Ulbert's shoulder, and lock with his.

Ulbert chuckles, "You are attracted to him, aren't you?"

She gasps, abashed, snapping her focus back to Ulbert.

"It's alright, Pet, you can look at him. He's beautiful, isn't he?" He flashes his fangs in a wicked grin, and the Devil feels his heart swell with pride at his Lord's lavish praise.

Her lower lips snares between her teeth with a shy blush.

"My greatest creation to date. Though as not as powerful as Malphas, he is my definition of perfection; sleek, agile, calculating and exquisitely evil. I think I would be offended if you did _not_ find him desirable."

"He is beautiful." She coyly agrees, and mewls when he grinds in particularly deep.

"Would you let him touch you as I do? Would you serve him on your knees like a good girl?" Ulbert rumbles and nips at her throat.

She hesitates, her gaze raking over the idle demon.

"Be honest."

"Yes..." She finally admits, licking her lips. _"Yes,_ Master. He is you in so many ways."

"That's my good girl..." Ulbert breathes, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear as he fucks into her mercilessly.

The Supreme Being then casts a brief glance back at Demiurge."I think he likes you, too. He hasn't taken his eyes off of you once."

* * *

Her eyes are twin mirrors of blue crystal that reflect his visage, framed by the undulating, black flame that wreaths his form. Without breaking his captivating stare, he claims her lips with brutal savagery.

She's beautiful, obedient and _so sweet_ \- everything he has ever wanted. Shudders of pleasure rack through him as he drinks in her honeyed moans, his name whispered like a mantra and his own bestial grunts. She gasps, soft and supplicant even as her hands drift over him, her blunt nails raking through his pelt and digging into the thick pads of muscle beneath.

His mouth works over her tender skin, sampling her, nipping lightly at leisure. She loves the sharp of his fangs, the element of danger it presents.

He adores that about her- she isn't frightened by the inhuman features of his heteromorphic form; she is enthralled by them, by lethal allure, _by evil,_ just as he is.

"You taste divine..." Ulbert bites with just enough pressure to draw tiny rivulets of blood, and he revels in her warbling cry. He chuckles against her porcelain skin, swiping his rough tongue over the freely-bleeding punctures.

She lets him drink from her- a privilege no other woman has ever indulged him in.

Ulbert tends to keep the majority of the array of his carnal tastes behind closed doors, unlike Peroroncino who has no issue in being blatantly open about the extent of his fetishes and desires. Master/Pet is by far his favorite, although he also enjoys Domination and Submission, bondage, blood-play, knotting, and a/b/o dynamics.

Groaning in savage satisfaction, he savors the metallic tang of her blood and the heavy throb of her inner walls, her body taking the vicious pounding not only in absence of any recourse, but because she wouldn't have it any other way. She is exquisite in all aspects- his ideal submissive...

_...and the love of his life._

He pushes into her ruthlessly; her back is sure to bruise as he grinds her into the pillar, testing the boundaries of what she can handle. Not once has she uttered their safe word- they understand one another completely, and he can gauge when she is reaching her breaking point; but he respects her too much to ever push that far.

The way they fit together is sinful- she's staggeringly tight, and his shaft pierces through her with long, thick glides. When he bottoms out, his mind blanks, wiped out by the completeness of her molten heat wrapped around him. How easy it is to come undone with her- he's on the precipice and can feel his orgasm coming, bright and pulsing and _hot._

She suddenly gasps out his name, undoubtedly feeling the delicious stretch of his knot swelling inside her, preparing to lodge within the wet plush of her walls for the next half hour.

"You feel that?" He growls, pulling her down into the endless firestorm of his gaze.

She lets out a gasping moan in lieu of a verbal response, beyond words at this point. She loves being tied with him- to feel the pulse of his cock as he comes again and again, to be held impossibly close while he murmurs what a good girl she is for taking all that he gives her.

"...Gonna fill you to the brim." He promises, gathering her legs more securely around him as he continues railing into her with deep, steady strokes, and she wails in ecstasy as his knot finally catches- so full and heavy, locking him inside her. Her head thumps back against the fluted alabaster stone as her body involuntarily arches. Ulbert sinks his fangs into the side of her neck, knowing it is exactly what she needs.

His name is a scream torn from her throat, as the vibrant meld of pain and ecstasy launches her into the void. Violently, she unravels, her channel straining around his knot and shaft to milk him in a silken, throbbing massage.

"Hell yes, come for me..." Ulbert groans with another savage pump of his hips, just seconds behind her.

The sweet tightening in the base of his spine finally snaps and he bursts with a snarl, erupting inside her, the hot spurt of his release inhumanly strong and filling her rapidly.

"Fuck..." He swears and rakes his talons downward over the pillar, chipping away shards of marble.

Ulbert presses his forehead against hers, huffing as he continues to release stream after stream, and she clings to him as though she never wants to let him go.

"I love you." Ulbert whispers, and he nuzzles the side of her face.

"I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said 'fuck it' to the "no NSFW content within Yggdrasil". Because this is fanfiction, and I do what I want. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Noteworthy Authors will be returning in the next chapter! ❤️


	9. Like A Pet

Later that evening, you grant yourself a brief reprieve and lean against the granite countertop in the kitchen to catch your breath before dinner for your Master must be prepared.

Much to your relief, after scrubbing out the bloodstain in Demiurge's quarters, he ordered you off to the kitchen to prepare the Tomb's lunch for the day- roast chicken breasts and Caesar salad. With that done, you spent the next few hours dusting and mopping the great hall.

You wished Tuare was here- you wanted to tell her she may have been right all along; that he is indeed dangerous, and how he had frightened you by grabbing you suddenly. But as your luck would have it, it seems she had been sent off to another section of the Tomb to clean for the day.

It's just you and Pestonya now.

A dull, wet slapping sound startles you, and you look across the aisle to see massive slab of raw meat laying heavily over a cedar cutting board, oozing an alarming amount of blood.

 _'Good gods.'_ This is what your Master is going to be eating?

Pestonya withdraws a butcher knife from the block and passes it to you. "Here we are- we'll be slicing a fresh filet of Wagyu for Lord Demiurge's dinner. Cut a filet approximately an inch and a half thick from the widest end."

"Um... okay." You take the blade and angle it to saw into the chilled flesh and muscle to Pestonya's specifications. The knife slices through the meat effortlessly like butter, and you peel the piece away, gruesomely drenching your bare hands in blood.

_Blood._

Suddenly, your sinuses sting with the salty smell of tears and the metallic tang of blood rings like a rusty, tarnished bell over your tongue.

He defiled your body, your memories-

_'I'll rip you apart!'_

Seething fury brews in your veins, bitter and black, and the breath stutters from your lungs.

Your fingers gouge into the meat, and you hear him _scream_ -

_'Yes, bleed, break- break like you broke me-'_

"Are you alright, dear?"

You jump, and swallow thickly- but your tongue is numb with shock as your mind reels, trying to find its center once more.

"I-I'm sorry." You whisper, and your eyes brim with a wave of tears that threaten to spill.

"I understand. Tuare would have similar... experiences. Sometimes she still does." Pestonya assures you, and rests her hand on your shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Would you like me to finish it?"

You blink rapidly and draw a deep breath, then slowly, shakily exhale. "No... I... I think I'll be alright."

If you let her take over, you'll be alone with your thoughts and fear you'll fall into that deep, dark chasm once more. Right now, the best thing you can do is keep your hands and mind busy.

Pestonya nods, and wags her tail. "Then let's cut another."

 _'Yeah, I guess I ruined that one.'_ You set the filet aside, your eyes lingering on the deep grooves you raked into it.

Angling the blade, you carve another filet out for the second time.

"Very nice!" Pestonya remarks, and she directs you to lay it over the cutting board, and she fetches a few spices from the cabinet and shakes out a small pile from each.

"Now, rub the roasted garlic and oregano into the filet."

"Yes, ma'am." Scooping up as much as you can, you sprinkle it over the meat and roll it in for a thoroughly coating and admire the snowflake-like marbling of the cut. It is unlike anything you have ever seen before and piques your curiosity.

"I've never heard of Wagyu- what is it exactly?" You query.

"It is a meat which has higher levels of intra-muscular fat, or marbling, but the meat texture is finer than that of a typical cow's. These cattle are raised on a small farm in the Royal Capital, and only in the best of conditions. They are fed exclusively on the greenest of grasses, and drink only from a stream that is purified with Bakuhanseki stones. They live luxuriously before being slaughtered at not a day older than three years- and that is what makes the meat such exquisite quality."

"Wow... I didn't know there was such a method of raising livestock." It sounds as though the cattle have had a better life than you.

"While the same likely cannot be said for other Wagyu farms, we pay the farmer well, and periodically oversee the animals' welfare to ensure it remains up to our standards. For the Guardians of the Tomb, only the best will be served."

Next she lights the fire to the cast-iron stove and lays out a copper pan, and greases the surface with olive oil. "We are going to sear it for just a few minutes. This locks in the blood and juices, and keeps the center raw, as he prefers."

"Raw?" You echo, hoping you heard wrong.

"Yes. Arch Devils require a regular intake of iron content for optimum health. While the Rings of Sustenance eliminate the need for consuming food and drink when it comes to most heteromorphs, the living steel in his tail will grow dull and brittle without daily iron. I suppose you can liken it to a vitamin deficiency, one that cannot be maintained with the aid of magical items." Pestonya explains.

"I hear spinach is high in iron." You jokingly suggest, and Pestonya smiles.

"Indeed, but Lord Demiurge, like most demons, is a carnivore. His preferred method of ingestion is via meat- the more rarely cooked, the more blood- and the higher the iron."

''Oh." So, your Master is practically a wolf.

_Or a tiger._

After the filet is seared on each side, it is placed on fine china and garnished with a lush branch of parsley.

"Now, we have to choose a wine. Red meats such as beef or venison are paired with red, and white meats like fish and poultry are paired with white." Pestonya informs you.

You haven't a clue what she is talking about. As far as you know, alcohol provides a nice buzz and takes the edge off of pain or wraps your nerves in a warm, fuzzy gauze. Is she seriously saying people actually drink for reasons other than that? Like to make meals more palatable?

_'Why am I even surprised? The Guardians live in the lap of luxury. I'd probably be drinking for vanity too if I could afford it.'_

"This one is Lord Demiurge's preferred bottle." Pestonya lets you examine the bottle's label to familiarize yourself with your Master's choice. The label depicts two serpents with glittering golden scales winding around a bushel of apples, their eyes glaring crimson like rubies. You hand it back to her, and she pours a serving into a delicately stemmed tulip glass.

The wine is blood red, and smells richly of berries and amber notes. You imagine the entire bottle likely costs an arm, a leg, and a soul.

"Will you be able to carry this to his quarters alone?" She asks.

"Yes, ma'am, I think so."

Pestonya places the plate and glass on a tray, and passes it to you.

You pray to any god you think might listen that you don't trip over the corridor's uneven cobblestone as you gingerly carry the tray to his quarters, focusing on each footstep so as to not to spill the wine.

By some miracle, the tray survives the journey, and you manage not to lose a drop. But now, with your hands full, comes the question:

_'How do I knock?'_

You know damn well if you try to lean downward to set it on the ground, you will only wind up dumping the contents of the tray and send it all crashing to the floor. 

Damn it. You should have asked Pestonya to accompany you. Your failure to think things through never fails to astound.

With a frustrated sigh, you carefully incline forward and knock twice with the side of your head.

_'Ow.'_

Almost instantly, the door slowly creaks open, and the hair on the back of your neck prickles with alarm as you are almost positive that you see a humanoid shadow without a host slither from the doorway and across the floor.

_'Maybe I'm seeing things.'_

A trick of the firelight dancing off the walls, perhaps?

With an audible swallow, you force yourself to disregard it and step into the room.

Again, you find Lord Demiurge reclined in his ivory chair, seemingly quite absorbed in another scroll, as though he never moved from that position. Timidly, you approach him, your stomach bubbling with nerves.

"Your dinner, Master." You bow at the waist before the demon, keeping your back almost painfully rigid in an endeavor to keep the tray level so as not to spill the wine.

"Excellent." He acknowledges you, and permits you to straighten your stance with a brief motion of his hand.

Demiurge furls the scroll and unfolds from his chair in a seamless motion, reminding you of a lounging tiger that suddenly animates to take advantage of prey that has foolishly grown too bold in his lethargy.

He prowls to the table and you watch his steel-plated tail smoothly sway behind him as he elegantly seats himself. A furtive glance to the window down the arched entryway of the Master bedroom shows the velvet curtains drawn tight, yet the dying light of mid evening valiantly slips around the edges. You estimate it to be around 6:30 to 7:00 pm. The days have only just begun to stretch with early spring.

Delicately, you set the plate down before him at the table as he drapes his napkin in his lap, and you lay out his silverware in the order of which Pestonya had shown you.

An icy caress over the back of your thigh makes your heart drop to your feet- it feels smooth and hard like the flat of a blade.

You jolt with a start and the knife falls from your hand and to the floor with a clatter, and a hard lump of fear clogs your throat in horror that you have just made a mistake.

"F-forgive me!" You stammer and the thump of your pulse kicks wildly within your chest at the thought of what he might do to you for dropping his silverware, because now he will have to delay his meal while you retrieve a clean one.

_Without thinking, she bends over to pick it up, granting him a glorious view of her perfectly heart-shaped derriere._

_His jaw clenches and the leather of his gloves creak as his hands flex at his sides with the effort to resist the urge to grab and squeeze those perfect, creamy globes of flesh._

_All he can imagine is walking up behind her, holding her down, bent over just like that, and slapping that ass with an open palm while he whispers in her ear what filthy things he would do to her. Then he would soothe away the faint red imprint with the flat of his tongue._

_But he silently coaches his restraint.  
_

You then realize what touched you was his armor-plated tail. Whether it was on purpose or not, you cannot be absolutely sure... although you want to lean towards intentional.

Fumbling clumsily at first, you finally manage to grab the knife and you swivel back to him, thoroughly discombobulated.

"It's quite alright." He says in an emotionless tone, but the corner of his mouth tugs upwards, betraying that he finds your flustered klutziness rather amusing.

A breath you didn't even realize you are holding stutters from your lungs in relief that he doesn't appear to be upset whatsoever. Quite the opposite, actually.

"Please, allow me to get another one for you!" You plead, and turn to rush to the kitchen in order to retrieve it.

The Arch Devil catches your wrist, and you gasp when you feel the startling sting of his talons through his gloves.

"Something this minor is no issue." He blinks slowly, deviously at you with the ghost of a smile. "Stay. I insist."

He releases you, and holds out his clawed hand for you to pass him the knife. With uneasy compliance, you relent.

The demon takes the utensil and wipes it on his linen napkin, then silently motions to the chair at the end of the table, implying he wishes for you to join him.

You obey, and slide the chair out to sit. Your eyes are magnetically drawn to how he cuts the steak open with surgical precision, and the dark, bloody juices seep out to stain the bone china red.

A morbid curiosity wonders if he performed surgery on you, and if your flesh split beneath his scalpel with as much practiced ease.

His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, and his gaze darkens at the scent and sight of blood. He then shutters his eyes and tows the flat of the dripping blade across his tongue, not allowing a drop of it go waste.

"Perfection." He purrs, his crystalline eyes sliding open to affix yours and his tongue curls over his fang.

The way those diamond-like eyes burrow into yours as he savors the blood on his palate gives you the impression that it is your own flesh that he wants a taste of, and a spiral of something hot races through you, unbidden. Your lips unseal as your heart begins to beat like the wings of a caged dove.

"So... are you sleeping well in your new quarters?" He asks, his gaze never faltering from yours.

"Y-yes, master." You quietly reply, relieved that he says something to snap you out of the bizarre trance you are falling under. "And thank you. I've never had a room of my own before."

"Is that so? And why is that, if you do not mind me asking?" Demiurge probes, and takes a bite of steak, and you simmer under the latent heat of his unwavering gaze.

"Um...we used to be locked in a designated room until the day was over, and after so many hours those of us who couldn't work anymore would sleep in a closet until the next shift, or another client would arrive." You timidly explain.

Demiurge draws a brow, but is otherwise expressionless as he weighs your words and chews meditatively, then swallows.

"That _is_ unfortunate." He says tonelessly, seemingly unaffected by the fact that you once lived in overworked conditions and squalor, as such history is typical for slaves. "However, as long as you serve under me, you will have your own quarters, clothes, and whatever else may be necessary for your functions."

"I am very grateful for that." You say with a respectful bow of your head. "And I noticed... none of the other cleaning staff have their own room. Even Tuare says she has to sleep in a shared bedroom with the rest of the maids." You note aloud.

"Of course. You're a personal servant, not mere maid staff." Demiurge practically scoffs.

You mull that over for a moment, but the difference between the two definitions eludes you, as are obligated to the same duties as the maids.

_'But why do I have my own room? Why do I stay on his Floor but none of the other maids do? Surely I'm not the only one contracted to a Guardian.'_

The demon can see the wheels in your head turning, though not quickly enough for his liking, as he adds, "You are assigned to the 7th Floor, my floor, and the kitchen; not the entirety of the Tomb as they are. Hence, why you have your own room, near your master."

"Oh." You say dumbly, feigning understanding- but as you feared, he can tell that you have failed to connect the dots.

"To be blunt," His voice slithers the length of the table. "...it means I _own_ you. You are bound to me, your Master; _like a pet,"_

Your eyes blink rapidly as your brain stalls on that one word.

_'A PET?!'_

"...which, of course, means that you are mine to _play with_ and _stroke_ when I please." The demon declares, and something predatory and possessive kindles in his expression as he illuminates the fine print of what you have actually agreed to.

Your body goes rigid as a board and your blood chills in your veins, tightening your skin with a prickling sensation as every hair stands on end. Time slows to a delirious crawl.

 _'Oh, shit.'_ Seriously, what were you thinking, agreeing to a deal with a Devil? You should have known that the bargain would weigh almost entirely in his favor.

As your eyes widen, his narrow as he watches the truth seep in with rapt satisfaction and his lips skin back into an insidious grin.

"Now, be a good girl," Demiurge slowly reclines back, adopting a pose which looks like a summons- chest open and legs stretched wide. The Devil's gaze simmers as he speaks slowly, giving each word its due. "...and _come_ \- sit on my lap."

Your face pales at the request, especially when he pats his knee in invitation, as though you are but a lap dog.

Instinct commands that you run, run like Hell and don't look back, especially with the way his eyes pierce yours like twin daggers as he waits for you to comply.

The demon is not someone you feel safe saying 'no' to, and if he grabbed you so roughly just for lying to him, what would he do to you for refusing a direct order? You are not in favor of finding out.

But even more worrisome-

...you feel it, buried beneath your primal fear and pride. A tiny, forbidden flame of excitement, one that ties to your kittenish curiosity and secretly thrills at the developing situation.

Your limbs shake as you slowly, hesitantly rise from your chair, and you duck your chin as you approach the demon seated before you. His pleased visage swims out of focus when you avert your gaze and dare to entertain him and put yourself in the proverbial lion's jaws.

But what choice do you have? You can do this- or, more accurately, you _have_ to do this- you now have a home, regular meals, and work. To disobey him could mean jeopardizing everything you have gained.

You aren't willing to take that risk.

Knees trembling, you edge your way to his side, and twitch when he slides his hand over your waist and settles you over top the unnaturally warm bench of his thigh. He gently rubs your side with his thumb.

 _'Oh gods, he's touching me...'_ It is methodical and thorough, a desensitization, perhaps. Like how he might try to calm a panicked animal.

The warmth of his palm is easily felt through his glove as well as the thin silk of your uniform. You swallow a little- even sitting down, he threatens to loom over you.

"There. This isn't so bad, is it?" He coaxes with a smirk. It's so strange- no, _wrong_ the way his words make you dizzy with an unfamiliar sensation- but you're drawn to him like a moth to a dancing pyre. You're mesmerized, terrified, but .... unable to resist. Again, you feel that foreign, throbbing heat unfurling from between your legs.

"N-no, Master." You sputter, and your heart flutters as he moves his hand from just above your waist up to your rib cage.

He isn't hurting you- far from it, in fact. His hand offers only gentle support. But your heart feels as if it is going to pound out of its cage.

 _'FUCK.'_ Your face tingles as a flush blooms over your cheeks, but are helpless to stop it.

"Here, try a taste," he insists, holding a bite of Wagyu near your mouth.

You prepared and cooked the steak yourself, and therefore are confident that it is not drugged or poisoned- still, your nerves favor a moment's hesitation before allowing you to nervously lean forward and accept his offering.

Some of your fear ebbs as you slowly chew the tender morsel.

 _'OH...oh my gods, that is divine!'_ Flavor bursts over your taste buds- the rich roasted garlic and herb is beautifully complimented by the coppery wang of brewed blood, and the buttery soft sliver of tissue melts in your mouth.

How can meat that is damn near raw taste so exquisite?

"Your verdict?"

"It's delicious." You tell him after swallowing.

"Indeed." He smiles. "You should be proud."

Your heart stops cold.

_'Wait... how does he know that I made it?'_

"Did you know," He starts as he spears another bite of steak onto his fork. "that Arch Devils of the Incubus class possess a sense of smell which rivals even that of a canine's?"

_'What is an Incubus?'_

"...No." You carefully reply, unsure as to what he is getting at.

"We even consider it a sort of... second sight." He muses, "For example; by scent alone, I can deduct that you handled this filet almost exclusively but with the aid of Pestonya in the kitchen, with no other individuals present, and even how anxious you were when bringing it to my quarters."

His accuracy is unnerving.

"It also allows me to determine all sorts of things about an individual. Who lacks fear and would make a good soldier, who would cower and run at the first sight of an enemy, who has a habit of lying and cannot be trusted to follow orders..." His voice trails off.

 _'He really could smell my fear...'_ Your heart plummets at this knowledge. _'he can probably smell how terrified I am right now.'_

"But you..." He says pointedly, and his tongue sweeps over his fangs in contemplation. "I admit, I have a difficult time pinning down."

His inadvertent double entendre reminds you of the last dream in which he did exactly that, and it sends drags of something raw and electrifying swooping through the depths of your abdomen.

He licks his lips before continuing. "Do you know what I smelled earlier when you were cleaning my quarters?"

Quivering with anxiety, you can only respond with a light shake of your head.

A chill races up your spine as he then grips your chin and turns your face to the side so you have to look at him directly.

"Oh, but I believe _you do..."_ He looks down his aquiline nose and stares with carnivorous interest. His hand reaches for you and you instinctively gasp and cringe, but he only cups your cheek as he slowly, purposefully slides a thumb down over your mouth, dragging your plush lower lip with it.

* * *

💖💖💖 ** _NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!**💖💖💖 

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend **_DatSonyat,_** author of both _[And All Falls To Ashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18796189/chapters/44597323) and [The Pygmalion and the Devil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18626491)!_

 **Summary of _And All Falls to Ashes:_** _A reversal: The ninth member of Nine’s Own Goal never quits, so Ulbert remains, and Momonga leaves YGGDRASIL one year before shutdown, leading to a cascade effect few would’ve predicted._

_Ulbert, as possessive and driven as his best friend, sometimes-lover, and life partner, Amon, refuses to leave all that their guild worked tirelessly to create. Inseparable till death do them part, staying behind with Nazarick and their beloved NPCs at YGGDRASIL’s end isn’t even a question._

_When the clock hits zero and resets, the New World will tremble before Nazarick’s might and bow to the Demon Gods that rule it… or burn._

This story is so heartfelt; I was legit 😭 when Ulbert and Amon were saying goodbye to Nazarick's denizens. And the way she describes Ulbert, writes his dialogue and gives him such personality is 10/10.

**Summary of _Pygmalion and the Devil:_**

_Lord Ainz is thankfully, mercifully wrong, and against all that he is, against every fibre of his being screaming traitor, Demiurge feels only ecstasy._

_He doesn't want to be Lord Ulbert's child._

DUDE. This work kicks _major ass._ The descriptions are absolutely stunning and and if you are looking for some of the best damn Demiurge smut there is, Pygmalion has _the_ hottest of Demiurge/Ulbert.

Below is a pic of her succubus OC Amon from And All Falls To Ashes. 💖

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demiurge/reader smut is on the horizon. Be prepared. 😏


	10. Mine To Play With

"Oh, but I believe _you do..."_ He looks down his aquiline nose and stares with carnivorous interest. His hand reaches for you and you instinctively gasp and cringe, but he only cups your cheek as he slowly, purposefully slides a thumb down over your mouth, dragging your plush lower lip with it.

_'Ohfuckohfuckohfuck-'_

He meets your gaze of burgeoning fear with an avid expression that further sharpens. In an instant you are hauled to your feet as he abruptly stands, sending the chair toppling to the floor. He releases your waist only to seize your bicep, dragging you along as he strides to the nearest wall.

Your heart is frantic in your chest, a trapped thing crashing against your ribs in effort to escape as you stumble behind him, and you slam on the breaks.

But it's no use.

Suddenly, you are hurled against the surface with enough force to knock the wind from your lungs.

You let out a coughing shriek as he sets upon you like wildfire, burying his fangs into the side of your neck in a startling but non-lethal bite, making you keen in distress like an animal snared. Your knees buckle beneath you as he locks onto the delicate muscle... _then sucks._ The wall of his body presses you in place, preventing your fall as he rucks your skirt up around your hips.

A strangled whine of protest escapes your throat as his gloved hand slips between your thighs, and you squeal when you feel his middle finger curling up into the scrap of lace that is your only barrier. A purr rumbles through him, seemingly pleased by what he finds there.

Panic spills into your veins as your heels leave the ground and you push against him, a futile effort. You may as well have been trying to shove a mountain aside for all the good it does.

He unlatches his jaws from your neck, and with a surge of force, raises you up, scraping your back against the cobblestone wall.

_'What in the actual FUCK is he doing?!'_

Higher and higher you go, until your hips are level with his face.

It crosses your mind to try to land a punch when icy hands gather your wrists and pin them to the wall near the ceiling. You glance up and your heart free-falls from a cliff when your eyes meet with the black shadow you glimpsed earlier hanging upside down and restraining you. The edges of its form ripple like a heat wave, distorting any possible features other than its humanoid shape.

 _Of course_ this terrifying entity would be real, and on his side, because fuck you, right? Such is always your luck.

"WHAT the Hell is tha-" You start to yelp in terror as your Master then harshly yanks your thighs apart. Demiurge manipulates your small body effortlessly, arranging your legs over his broad shoulders in a reverse piggyback. Your arms jerk in effort to get free, but the shadow creature holds you fast.

"Please, d-don't-" Shock finds you pathetically tongue-tied, and the Arch Devil lets out a growling chuckle before he presses his mouth and nose against your cleft, flooding the sensitive area with his scathing breath and cutting your protest short into a staggered gasp. A fresh wave of goosebumps breaks out over your skin as some dark and buried part of you chants _yesyesyes_ while your rational mind is roaring NO.

 _"Desire,"_ He hisses, nosing at your pearl before yanking your panties aside. "...is what I smell."

All panic ceases to matter as he crushes his mouth to your slick folds, delving in to suck and lick with all the ravenous hunger of a starving beast.

Your cry borders on a scream and he purrs in response, then slips his tongue lower to snake into your tight opening. Your frightened moans fill the room, along with the wet sounds of his mouth eating at you. You try to arch but can't, finding that you are entirely restrained by both the Devil and whatever-the-fuck the shadow creature is above you.

A nightmare- this HAS to be a nightmare!

Demiurge's eyes seem to glow in the dim firelight of the room as he stares up at you, gauging your reactions. Your heartbeat pounds through your body like struck steel as he runs his clawed fingers along the curve of your ass, kneading the plump flesh in his palms.

It should be unfathomable, what he is doing- especially the idea of being enslaved to him to be used for his perverse pleasures- but the insides of your thighs rapidly grow sticky-wet with alien need as he masterfully plays your body like an instrument.

It's filthy, it's wrong; the shreds of your mind are aghast at your body's response to his ministrations and you're a horrible person for feeling anything but disgust-

...but what he is doing feels so, _so damned good._ It is utterly depraved, the way he slurps at you, sucking at your slit like he cannot afford to miss a drop of the juices that drip from you like tears.

 _Never_ have you responded to anyone's touch like this. Never has it felt like liquid fire, and never before has your body screamed for _more_.

How can you possibly want this?

You should try to fight back.

"No," You halfheartedly whine, breaching the hazy surface of the mind-shattering pleasure as you try to remind yourself how wrong this is, that you have finally escaped the brothel only for a demon to lure you into his clutches and claim you as his personal fucktoy.

But it is practically impossible as his fangs scrape dangerously over your folds and he laves and sucks, _giving_ , rather than merely taking as every client you were forced to serve had. Those crystalline eyes gaze up at you, and you sink into their white-hot smolder just as his tongue sinks into your clenching heat.

"Yes." He contends, and you close your eyes in defeat, knowing damn well you are powerless to stop him from taking whatever he wants. "You don't have a choice in the matter."

He's right. You _don't_ have a choice. He's too strong to fight back against. But who could blame you for not testing his patience? For playing it smart, and not risking injury by fighting him tooth and nail? For not wanting to jeopardize your new home with a warm bed and a shower?

 _'I don't have a choice.'_ So, it's not your fault, right?

He sets a tormenting pace, penetrating you several times before swirling through your tender folds, and using deep, exquisite pulls from his lips before slipping down to pierce you again. All at once it is simultaneously too much and not enough, and you can feel every cell of your body crying out for more of the sinful thing he is doing.

Something is building with every flick of his devilishly long tongue, pulling from the depths of your core, growing bright and pulsing and _hot..._

Softly whining into the velvety red darkness behind your eyes, both the living shadow and the Devil's claws hold you in place as his mouth sculpts your desire for something you do not even understand into a masterpiece of shameful ecstasy.

You are on the precipice of something; you can feel it...

One of his hands leaves your rear and you vaguely hear a metal clinking through the thick fog that has settled over your brain as he shifts a bit beneath you, and you hesitantly crack your eyes open.

Your whole groin throbs like a beating heart, the rapture excruciating. He gives your seam one long, scathing, final lick and you whimper at the loss of his mouth's exquisite warmth, leaving you wet and cold.

_'This is so wrong... how can I want this to continue?!'_

He unhooks your trembling thighs, and you're dimly aware that the phantom's grip releases you, causing you to slide downwards and into the demon's waiting grasp, and he gathers your calves around his waist.

In a daze, you find your hands clutching the rock-hard muscle of the Arch Devil's biceps beneath his suit as you cling to him shakily. Overheated blood courses through your veins, flushing your skin and boiling all coherent thought into wisps of steam.

You're so close to him now that you can practically taste his redolence of wildfire, scorched sandalwood, warm, dark spice and lust on the back of your tongue; if the temptation of sin carried a scent...

He licks his lips, eyes glittering like topaz with primal hunger as he shifts again, and you feel-

Choking out a gasp, you blink rapidly at the startling sensation of your folds parting to give way to his hot, thick girth, and can feel every ridge and contour of the flared head of his cock as he lowers you onto him.

Demiurge's lip curls into a cruel sneer and his hips jerk, pushing in another inch, widening your channel as he steals a tortured cry from your mouth.

"Don't lie." He hisses, and pulls your hips down, and you slide further onto his length... and he just. Keeps. Filling you. "I can smell how much you want it- _want me."_

 _'Oh gods, he's inside me...'_ Your mind whirls when he bottoms out. With a shuddering inhale, the demon's eyes pinch shut behind his spectacles as he savors the tight heat which surrounds him.

Your passage seizes around him in shock, and before you can swallow it down, a strangled moan escapes.

Were you capable of thinking coherently, you would likely cry at the way your body so treacherously rewards him for the depravity he is subjecting you to.

You pant with anticipation as the long slide of his withdrawal makes your eyes roll in your head, and then he surges forward to rock into you with a savage thrust, rattling your teeth.

With a feral flash of fangs, he begins to fuck you almost violently, each brutal connection eliciting an abrupt cry from your lips.

The Devil nips at your neck, and the sweet sharp of his teeth pierce with an illicit bloom of pleasure that radiates through your sex. You moan aloud, your head falling back against the wall as your nipples tighten into aching buds when his suit-covered chest scrapes over your breasts.

 _"Mmm..._ you like that," He purrs, then swipes his tongue over the indentions before hissing in your ear, "don't you?"

 _'Fuck, yes!'_ You refuse to say it, but yes, YES, you fucking love it.

And you hate yourself for it.

Your back bows when Demiurge seals his mouth over the bite and sucks, and when you let out a gasping cry in lieu of a response, he grins against your skin.

"That's a good girl," He croons, letting you draw his body closer when your thighs cinch tighter around his hips and he rewards you with a jarring thrust. "give in to your Master."

The Devil slows his movements to an agonizingly slow grind, and the raging inferno between your thighs dies down from a roar to a flicker, leaving you aching and desperate for more...

...for what you now know only _he_ can give you.

It is sickening how naturally it comes, your pathetic, agonized plea. But the brothel trained you for this, after all.

"Please..." You whisper, and regret it the moment the word disintegrates from your lips.

Never have you wanted anything so badly- not food, not morphine, nor freedom.

"Louder." Demiurge's hiss sizzles over your flesh. "Say it."

Nothing has ever been more of an imperative than the need you have for him to finish what he started.

"Please!" Your eyes never waver from those of the Devil as you beg him to defile you further, and his lips peel back in the most wicked of grins.

"Very good..." His voice is black velvet as his hips curl under yours, smoothly driving his cock up into your sheath, ramping up his pace once more.

The pent-up need and shored tension threaten to unleash, and you sob brokenly in both relief and regret as the delicate muscles of your passage flutter on his rigid length. Raking your nails into the fine material of his pinstriped suit, every muscle in your body tenses in preparation- something is coming, and there is no stopping it.

"You're going to come for me, aren't you?" His voice slices through the buttery-thick fog with a metallic purr, but his words are lost to your sensation-addled mind. "Mmm, yes, I can _sssmell_ your body's cry for ecstasy."

The demon sinks his fangs into your neck once again, and begins pumping subtly in time with both the clenching of his jaw and the throbbing of your body, letting each pulse draw him in deeper.

With every thick glide of his shaft, you soar, higher and higher, until-

You scream, venting your rage and rapture as your head falls back against the wall, and you shatter into a million brilliant shards that sing and bleed with the magnitude of the euphoria that rips through your belly and all the way down the trembling muscles of your thighs.

What is happening?!

Nothing, not even morphine compares to the high flooding your every neuron right now.

Demiurge's claws grip your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye. They gleam like crystallized white fire as he glares at you with nearly maniacal possession.

"Look at me," He commands with a honeyed growl, and he fucks into you harder with a raspy groan of satisfaction.

You feel your passage suckle at his shaft with hungry little pulses, and he affixes you with his murderous stare, daring you to look away. But all you can do is stare at him in awe, stare and shake and gasp while clinging to the anchor of his body as the fibers of your very being unravel in his claws.

He adjusts your thighs around his hips, leveraging an even deeper angle that tears an enraptured moan from your lungs when his head strikes at your womb. You're so obscenely wet, and the lewd, filthy sound of him fucking you frays your last remaining threads of coherency.

Your lungs fume, unable to keep pace with the brutal hammering that pounds each breath from your chest. Darkness seeps inward from the corners of your vision, glittering with stars as his hips flex into you with a deliberateness that is designed to decimate any and all resistance.

Your chest rises and falls, feverishly panting with the need for air and you are barely able to see straight. Demiurge's claws clutch your hips in a bruising grip, holding you flush and immobile as he savagely snarls into your neck.

You feel the ventral vein of his shaft contract with a heavy pulse, releasing the first spurt of his come; a scalding stream so strong, it parts you like a liquid arrow, shooting deep into the heart of your passage. Demiurge huffs, his breath a scorching lick of flame against your flesh.

You let out a staggered gasp- whether his pleasure is somehow feeding into your own, you do not know- but suddenly, your body is humming ever so pleasantly with a bright glow, as though liquefied sunshine is alighting through your veins.

All you know is that you relish each throb of his shaft as the warmth of his release seeps into your bones, making your every atom purr.

As if sensing your desire for it, the muscles of your sheath clamp down to tighten invitingly around his thick head, imploring him for more.

"Master," You whine as he continues to flood your body with a tide of fluidic rapture.

He responds with a low growl and another firm pump of his hips, again anointing you from the inside with waves of thick, milky warmth that so sweetly lap into you.

After no less than a full minute, the volume of his hot spurt slowly ebbs, leaving you luscious with his molten seed. Your body falls limp as a rag doll in arms so strong, only maintaining an upright position because he isn't letting you fall.

Eyes feeling heavy, they try to shutter themselves as every muscle in your body melts into a puddle of relaxation.

 _'Oh... oh, this is just lovely.'_ You moan softly, and rest your head on his shoulder. The steel of his many earrings brushes your cheek, so nice and cool on your overheated flesh.

Why in the Hell were you fighting this? Fighting _him?_ You never want this feeling to go away. You want to bathe in it, soak it into every inch of your skin. This is your new religion, and Demiurge, your unholy priest.

You were an idiot to want to resist this. This, right here, is nothing short of _bliss._

When the lush pulses of his orgasm finally subside, his hand cups the side of your face, so wonderfully warm.

"I'm going to put you to bed, and I want you to _stay_ there till morning." His voice is low and commanding.

Your brow knits with confusion. Did you do something wrong?

 _'But... I don't want to go to bed.'_ Your mind feels airy and light but your body feels weighted, detached. You want to stay here with him, and bask his beautiful, sweet warmth.

There's nowhere else you would rather be. You are perfectly content to doze off right here with the exquisite fullness of the Devil still nestled inside you, keeping his release right where it needs to be.

"I... I can't stay withhh you...?" You drunkenly complain with your tongue feeling thick and numb in your mouth. Your head lolls limply to the side, and you feel as though you are drifting, drifting... then sinking down, down, down into a plush red haze.

"You will do as I say, Pet." The demon reiterates, but he sounds a thousand miles away.

* * *

The stars emerge and the moon now hovers overhead, their combined light painting the land in hues of indigo and violet. Malphas looks out across his balcony, scanning the length of his territory as he takes a drag from his cigarette.

His stomach growls, and he glances down at his body with disinterest before exhaling a cloud of smoke. Without a Ring of Sustenance, he is growing leaner. A steady diet of bitterness and cultivated sorrow absolves his will to eat, and he sighs heavily while tucking a strand of his shoulder-length hair behind his ear, making the golden rings adorning them jingle.

Normally, his six-foot-six frame of pure muscle mass fills out his collared white dress shirt to where it strains across the breadth of his chest- but after almost a week without eating, it has gained a bit of slack.

It has been too long since he has seen Demiurge, and he can feel that aching chasm where his heart should be, a dry-socket, dark and deep enough to dig his fist into beginning to fester.

The demon's tail twitches with discontent, and the segmented steel plates fail to reflect the moonlight- its natural armor is rapidly losing its luster.

He needs to hunt.

Malphas' nostrils flare as he takes a steadying breath, both scenting the wind for prey and deriding himself for the millionth time for possessing the ability to love... there are times in which he wished he could not feel at all.

A warm, musky aroma, laden with trampled clover and earth reaches his nose; Malphas recognizes it as a Midgardian stag, in the prime of Rut and he debates if he cares to take advantage of the opportunity. The Arch Devil's mouth waters at the promise of bloody meat and he sweeps his tongue over his fangs.

 _'Your Master would scold you for not keeping up your strength. How else will you care for the Bicorns he entrusted you with?'_ He goads himself.

Frustration and guilt wins out, pressurizing like trapped steam. The demon leaps fifteen feet down from the balcony, his tailcoat billowing around him like a cape. He lands silently and trudges through the open pasture, slipping off his calf-length coat and unbuttoning his shirt, then draping the articles over a low hanging branch.

His crystalline eyes of sapphire thaw to molten gold, and his fangs elongate to push past his lips. He ignites into a pillar of flame, bathing the edge of the wood in a flickering scarlet glow and birthing a host of shadows. The quick spike of his prey's fear riles the predator in him, a justified reaction to the sight and scent of his new shape. The tongues of flame spiral away from his body with pinwheels of ember spats, revealing the form of a great cat with eyes of Hellfire.

* * *

_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend Amphinogiz, author of [You Mean Your A Devil Too?](https://www.wattpad.com/873639565-you-mean-you%27re-a-devil-too-demiurge-x-fem-reader) on Wattpad!

She's also a wonderful artist, and makes awesome Demiurge pics, many of which you can find on her [Tumblr](https://amphinogiz.tumblr.com/).

Below is a pic of one of her OCs, Zig. 


	11. Of Death Denounced

**Experiment 3069**

**Race: Human/Female**

**Height: 5 feet, 2 inches**

**Weight: Approximately 115 pounds**

**Hair color: Blonde**

**Eye Color: Blue**

**Conditions and Ailments: On Initial Examination, Multiple Broken Bones, Extensive Bruising, Possible Brain Damage Due To Head Trauma**

**Status: Critical**

**Entry 1:  
**

_Queen of this universe, do not believe  
Those rigid threats of death; ye shall not die:  
How should ye? by the fruit? it gives you life  
To knowledge. By the Threat'ner? look on me,  
Me who have touched and tasted, yet both live,  
And life more perfect have attained than Fate  
Meant me, by vent'ring higher than my lot.  
Shall that be shut to man, which to the beast  
Is open? or will God incense his ire  
For such a petty trespass, and not praise  
Rather your dauntless virtue, whom the pain  
Of death denounced, whatever thing death be…_

A knock at my chamber door disengaged me from the pages of Paradise Lost.

  
_'Odd.'_ I drew a brow- I was not expecting anyone.

 _'And just when things were getting interesting.'_ Satan's argument returned to his original speech, convincing his angels to rebel – Eve was rightfully a goddess, and she should not have to submit to God based merely on his arbitrary commandment. Such an argument seemed like it would be unappealing to the relatively ignorant and unambitious Eve, but when combined with the earlier flattery, it won her over.

Another knock, more urgent this time. A late night visit from Lord Ainz, perhaps?

 _'Chapter ten.'_ I noted to myself, so as not to lose my place. With an exasperated sigh, I abandoned my book and rose from my throne of ivory to answer the door.

The signature redolence of button polish and petrichor seeping through the crack at the bottom told me it was none other than Sebas. This was most unusual, for if the Butler were to ever contact me, he did so via {Message} instead, so I could not even begin to imagine why he would set foot on the Seventh Floor without notifying me first.

One could say we were not on the friendliest of terms.

My nostrils flared- most disturbing of all, his scent was laced with something foreign. Something _human_ , with vaguely familiar undertones, and it was sweeter than Tuare...

Lo and behold, I pulled the door open to find the Butler standing with his posture ramrod straight as always, even with the crumpled form of a young mortal woman cradled in his arms.

I bit back a scoff of disgust and was prepared to verbally eviscerate the Butler for being so foolish as to bring yet _another_ human into Nazarick's walls- Lord Ainz will be furious. After the last fiasco it created, I could not help but to once again question his loyalty- much less sanity.

I glared down at her; while her features were swollen and bruised to the point of being nearly unrecognizable, her scent _was_ familiar, and it was the only thing that convinced me not to simply slam the door in the Butler's face.

 _'I know that scent...'_ Like a bolt of lightning illuminating an ominous sky, the memory slotted into place. _'Impossible!'_

It was _her_.

Against astronomical odds, Sebas had somehow located and rescued my Creator's Pet.

My rage turned to ash in my mouth, rendering me speechless; It had been a little over a year, so I did not believe she was still in our realm. In fact, I was under the impression that my Lord had taken her with him.

Why in all Nine Hells was she still here?

I glanced to the Butler's face- his sober, stone facade was ever unbreakable, but I did not miss the furrow of concern puckering his brow, betraying his emotions. Stormy blue eyes regarded her from above a prominent nose, and his silver beard and mustache framed lips which were pressed into a grim line. My jaw clenched and my hackles flared as he held her tighter to him, as though he recognized her to be something precious.

 _'Mine.'_ It drove a hot spike of possession through my chest.

Did he know of her significance?

"Where did you find her?" I gleaned for information. But with the fetid stench of over a dozen human males all over her, it was far from difficult to guess.

He returned my glare before replying, "The brothel."

 _The brothel,_ of all the unsavory places. Others had touched her, _defiled_ her, my Lord's property, and such knowledge sent a hot wave of caustic rage roiling through my veins.

"I had returned there to-"

"Why you were there does not concern me. What concerns me is what you are doing _here_." I hissed and cinched my grip on the door handle. "Do you truly believe Lord Ainz will allow her to stay? That he would grant you or another human the same benevolence _twice?"_

He could not know what I know. Appearances must be upheld if she were to be returned into proper hands.

_My hands._

Of course, seeing as to how Lord Ulbert only ever brought her to the Burning Temple through a portal, it was entirely possible that I was still the only one who knew she was his plaything... and I intended for it to stay that way. All that was once my Creator's had been bequeathed to my brother and I.

She shall be no exception.

"Demiurge," The Butler spoke, low and firm but my sharp hearing caught the barely-detectable inflection of despondence in his voice.

Her breathing was terribly shallow, and I could hear her heart rate dropping, growing thready. If I did not intervene, she would not last the next few hours.

Her life was entirely in my hands.

Sebas simultaneously came to the same grim conclusion, and I watched the motion of his throat, of him swallowing his pride. "...I ask that you save her."

I sneered, flashing my fangs in a sour grimace, accompanied by a resentful thrash of my tail which sliced through the buttery thick tension hanging heavily in the air. Oh, how I wanted to bask in the Butler's tightly wound desperation, to make him plead as I feigned hesitation. 

But there was too little time to waste on indulging myself in sadistic satisfaction.

"Bring her to my examination room." I finally huffed, then strode past Sebas down the dimly lit corridor, and he followed closely in tow. "Shadow Demon, fetch Solution." I ordered, and the entity peeled off from the cobblestone ground behind me and slithered away to do my bidding.

With a wave of my hand, the candelabras of the room flared to life with a small puff of flame, casting a wavering jaundice glow and birthing a host of shadows. I swept a green glass bottle of sterilizing agent off of the shelf and dabbed some onto a rag before using it to burnish my surgical tools. The scent of antiseptic flushed my senses with an alcoholic sting; it was harsh to my highly sensitive nose, but it also made my heart race with the exhilaration that I have come to associate with examining the insides of a living creature; to watch the heart pump blood through a map of arteries, the inflation of pink lungs through the parietal peritoneum's translucent membrane, and being able to feel the spark of animation, of _life_ pulsing beneath my hands- and knowing how easily I can ensure its preservation or _snuff it out_ \- is a thrill like no other.

Here, in this room, I am no less than a _God_.

"I will take it from here," I addressed the Butler as he deposited her limp form upon the table with utmost care. "Please allow us room to work. She requires immediate examination and likely emergency surgery if she is to survive."

Sebas' eyes flashed, hard and cold like gunmetal, and leveled me with a look that implied he did not to trust me to treat her to the best of my ability. Though I cannot say that his suspicion is misplaced, given my history of employing mankind as my experimental subjects, tools and toys.

But I would not allow this particular human to die. In light of Ulbert's absence, she was now my property.

_My Pet._

Solution arrived as promptly as I had hoped.

"Thank you, Shadow Demon. Solution, I require assistance- draw up a sedative. Valerian root extract- 10 mgs, and chase it with 5 mgs of morphine." I prompted Solution to prepare the subject for surgery. While she was currently unconscious due to shock, I could not risk her coming to while under the knife.

The battle maid shot me a puzzled look as she approached the examination table, making it crystal clear that she was not keen on repairing yet another human for the sake of Sebas' bleeding heart. But a sharp narrowing of the eyes and an impatient wave of my tail alluded that I had no time to explain.

"Only 5 mgs?" Solution then questioned the meager dose of painkiller I suggested, but she is still learning the ins and outs of the human body. A heteromorph would require ten times that amount for any relief.

"If any more is given, she could suffer respiratory suppression and stop breathing. We do not know the extent of internal injury at this point." I explained while sliding my jacket off and unbuttoning the cuffs of my shirt to roll up the sleeves as far as they would go. "If we determine that there is no damage to the lungs, we can administer more once she is stabilized. Also keep in mind humans do not possess a resistance to poisons as we do. They can easily overdose on opioids."

"Yes, Lord Demiurge." Solution smoothly slipped the needle into the human's arm and with a steady push of the plunger, emptied the sedative into her vein. Under my training, her method of injection had drastically improved. Before observing my experiments and surgical procedures, Solution could not find and pierce a vein to save her life.

I removed my rubber apron from the rack and hooked the collar around my neck before tying the waist strap in place, then tugged off my leather gloves to trade them with my elbow-length surgical ones.

"Solution will inform you when she is in recovery." I promised the Butler.

"I appreciate you doing all that you can. Please heal her to the best of your ability, and repair her memory. I do not doubt that she has suffered severe head trauma." The Butler then favored me with a bow of gratitude.

"I shall." I assured him with a curt nod.

With little other choice, Sebas begrudgingly took me at my word and showed himself out, but only after hearing that drugs for her comfort were being carefully administered.

**_Medical Analysis: Subject's wounds are numerous- Massive head trauma, likely internal bleeding and/or punctured organs, at least 3 to 5 broken ribs, a broken nose, a shattered ocular orbit, several chipped teeth, extensive bruising of the face, neck, arms, legs, shoulders and rear, vaginal tearing and an anal fissure. Multiple injection sites over the cubital median veins of both arms indicate the subject is often sedated or drugged._ **

Her injuries mirrored Tuare's when she first arrived.

"Her wounds are severe, the potions only do so much." Solution remarked after the first two vials were administered.

This was true. The vials supplied for my experiments held within the Tomb were not mending her broken bones and only healed more superficial wounds- bruises, scrapes, cuts, etc. The potions with the power to heal more significant damage were rightfully reserved for Nazarick's own denizens, though a few were stored at my ranch where I performed more... _unorthodox_ experiments.

Therefore, exploratory surgery would be necessary to locate any internal bleeding or punctured organs so repairs could be made manually.

In close proximity to the lower humerus was a massive bruise which drew my gaze. It was dark olive at the margins, a gruesome shade of purple in the inner layers, and black at the center. A closer examination showed the surrounding tissues were tight and swollen.

"Suspected break of the lower humerus." I noted aloud, but that wasn't my main concern. I raked my eyes over the trunk of her badly damaged form.

She was terribly frail and thin- borderline emaciated, in fact; she appeared to have been given only slightly more nutrition than what was necessary to prevent organ failure. This was typical for the seedier brothels- keep the girls hungry and addicted to a drug, and they would be less likely to attempt escape or fight the clients out of favor of food and a fix.

My gloved fingers came to rest low on the subject's abdomen, just above the navel, where there was a slight, barely-detectable swell. I pressed gently; it was soft, with little to no resistance. The flesh sprung back in place, remaining distended, which told me she was thankfully not pregnant, but bleeding internally.

"Scalpel." I called for, and Solution passed me the tool.

With steady, clinical hands, I made an incision just below the sternum and drew my blade downwards with calculated pressure, and watched the instrument part the skin of her abdomen as easily as a hot knife slicing through butter. The dark blood bloomed outward like an ink blot spreading across peachy parchment.

It made my mouth water- that bittersweet aroma with metallic notes that richly ring over the tongue, like the darkest of chocolate- Hades, it was just as delectable as I remembered.

How I wanted to sink my fangs into the delicate curve of her neck and sample the blood that my Lord had once so lavishly feasted upon.

 _'Patience...'_ I chided myself and swallowed thickly around the lump of bloodlust in my throat. Now that she was mine, I had all the time in the world to taste every inch of her at my leisure. I grasp the chains of my self-restraint with a white-knuckle grip- beneath the wretched, layered stench of human male, I could still smell the faintest traces my Lord's musk- an intoxicating aroma of scorched earth, cloves, cedar and black leather. I wanted to brush all over her and soak it into my skin, to once again carry that scent which brought me such comfort.

I could already tell, it would be excruciating to hold myself back, once she was on her feet. I intended to own her completely, as my Lord had; in both body and mind. Though I was not naive- I fully expected her to fear me and fight me every step of the way... _at first._ But I would worm my way in, and smoothly, _silently_ slip under her defenses like water. She wouldn't even know how far in over her head she was until it was too late.

Ah, but I was getting ahead of myself. For now, my newly acquired plaything needed stitches before she was good as new.

"Retractor, please."

Solution carefully hooked it into place. The tool spread the subject's flesh wide, holding her open so that I may fully examine the extent of damage.

It was immediately apparent that she was bleeding internally, due to one of her ribs being damn near pulverized and a sharp fragment nicking the right inferior phrenic artery.

I called for a pair of forceps. Solution handed them to me and watched with rapt fascination as I reached in and followed the leaking artery with my fingers to pinch down where she was bleeding out from. After clamping it, I passed of a length of surgical tape around the vessel and stopped the blood from spritzing from the rupture. Next, I clipped the torn area and with acute precision, micro-stitched it with surgical thread. When I'd worked the last length of suture nylon in, I removed the clamp.

Even in the gauzy light, I could make out the pearly whiteness of her rib cage and veins of hairline cracks and breaks within the ivory arcs.

Carefully, I used a pair of tweezers to pick out shards of broken bone and dropped them into a steel pan. It was easy to determine which piece was responsible for severing her artery, as it was all sharp edges, like a knife.

"Her heart rate?" I inquired, and Solution presses two digits to the subject's neck to take her pulse.

"A bit low and thready, but not too alarming considering her condition."

"Excellent. We're almost finished." I concluded. "She'll live. I've made sure of it."

Once her bleeding was under control, I drew out the blood which had pooled in excess just behind her lungs with a pipette to prevent haemothorax and stitched her back up. Solution then mended the seams with low-tier healing magic to prevent scarring.

"Instrument count?"

"Twelve- they're all here." Said Solution after tapping her finger over each.

By the time I had rinsed my tools and stripped off my apron, only the shadows of her worst bruises lingered.

The subject would need at least three to four weeks of recovery time, but I intended to speed things up a bit by obtaining a stronger potion from my brother to mend her broken nose, teeth, orbital, arm and ribs, as well as the worst of her brain damage.

However, her prognosis was promising. I was fully confident she would survive and suffer no disfigurement.

But as for her memory...

"Splint her arm and keep her under for the time being, and I'll fetch a stronger potion from Malphas. But do _not_ repair her memory. Do what you must with the rest of her brain damage, but I expect a blank slate."

Solution's lips unsealed as she affixed me with a stare of disbelief.

"But... Sebas said to-" She began.

"I do not care what Sebas said to do." I cast an icy glare her way, daring her to challenge my override of Sebas' authority. " You will do as _I say._ Do I make myself clear?"

She wisely declined any argument.

"Yes, Lord Demiurge."

* * *

Noteworthy authors will return soon! But in the meantime, check out this awesome fanart of Malphas the lovely [Amphinogiz](https://amphinogiz.tumblr.com/) made for me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did things a little differently for this chapter, as a sort of diary entry/ Demiurge's POV.


	12. Sneak Peek of Chapter 12 (Artwork)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something-something to look forward to for the next chapter. ;3
> 
> I'm particularly happy with how this turned out, so I decided to throw this up here for everyone who has mentioned loving Demiurge/Malphas.


	13. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of some sweet Demiurge/Malphas. ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> Part two will commence with some lovely smut.

A soft groan is muffled into the goose-down pillow as Demiurge slowly pushes upward, his arms aching from exertion. The iron plates of his tail clink as it curls, then unwinds with a feline stretch, and his feet brush over the lush, snow white pelt of a Sabre Wolf rug when he carefully slides out of bed.

He shivers in the chilly air and the openness of being threadbare in someone else's room.

Malphas' room, to be particular.

Stealing a furtive glance over his shoulder, Demiurge admires the portrait of his predecessor; he is artfully arranged on a background of black satin, his outline broken up with abstract pools of light cast by the amber dawn spilling through the drapes. Crimson claw marks earned in the throes of passion streak his shoulders, back and ribs. He rumbles, jaws parting to unfurl his tongue, ivory canines flashing in a wide yawn as he readjusts and stretches one thickly muscled arm, flexing his claws.

 _'Gods below, he's magnificent.'_ Demiurge marvels.

Malphas is reminiscent of a lounging tiger, as equally deadly as he is beautiful, even in sleep.

The Seventh Floor Guardian licks his fangs and steadies himself with a slight sway, his head swimming from a mild hangover as a result of polishing off a bottle of blood wine. Once he finds sure footing, he stalks away from the bed to the bathroom.

Demiurge needs a shower to fully come to.

The Arch Devil guides his hand along the wall as he goes, groggily noting the grand size of the bathroom, complete with both a shower and tub, pristine marble countertops veined in silver, and accents of golden fixtures and rods lined with fluffy purple towels edged with elaborate liana embroidery. It is easily three times as large as his own master bath in Nazarick, though befitting in regards to his brother's massive size.

Malphas' new profession has earned him the title of Lord of Steeds within the Royal Capital, and it affords him luxury that rivals even the most prestigious royalty in the region. Despite his wealth, his duty demands that he spend the majority of his day outdoors, either to bale hay, trim his beasts' hooves or repair the Bicorn stables when the stallions' aggression boils over after the mares come into season. His work is never done, and this means many of his rooms and furniture suffer little wear or use, save for his bed and the leather settees in the den.

Despite his lavish furnishings, it is only on rare occasion that Malphas indulges himself anymore, whether it be in delicacies, rest, or carnal relations; one could say that Malphas has become quite the workaholic, and last night made this fact glaringly obvious.

Malphas drank like a fish and practically pounded Demiurge's shape into the mattress, and he felt every ounce of tension that had been wound tight unleash in the form of a furious fucking, and Demiurge cannot recall the last time he nor his brother _required_ sleep afterwards.

Demiurge takes a moment to regard his state in the wall-length mirror. His sight is rather watery without his spectacles, but he can make out bite marks and bruises blooming lividly over his flesh like purple flowers, all over his neck, the breadth of his shoulders and chest. Bracelets of spotty contusions encircle his wrists where Malphas had pinned him down at one point. A twin set of deep, red grooves wrap around his hips where the elder Devil's claws held him in place as he drove into him without mercy.

How he wishes he could wear them, _all of them_ , home.

The demon twists the crystalline faucet handles and steps into the shower for a short wash. A breathy sigh passes over his lips as the warmth seeps into his flesh, soothing his strained muscles. He turns his back to the spray, and the deep punctures scoring his nape sweetly sting, making him hiss through his teeth. His blood heats at the memory of how he earned them- Malphas had employed a restraint bite as he fucked him from behind; he relished how the elder Devil's scorching breath huffed through his nose, tickling the fine hairs at the base of his head as he kept his hands pinned to the mattress. How Malphas roared against him as he erupted, and Demiurge savored the filthy wet spurt that followed. How he soared with his own orgasm as his brother roughly pumped his shaft, and then the high of the natural sedative found in Incubus semen kept him floating in velvet-wrapped ecstasy for the next three hours.

He finishes showering, and towels off.

Silently, Demiurge pads back into the bedroom and gleans for his clothes, hoping to spot his button-down shirt or jacket to throw on, and he shivers when he doesn't see either. He then vaguely recalls they are still strewn about on the staircase, as neither of them could wait to be skin-to-skin.

This region of the continent is much cooler compared to the cozy warmth of the Seventh Floor which he has grown so accustomed to. He doesn't know how Malphas can stand it- but he then reminds himself his brother never had a choice, and his gut tightens with... what he surmises must be _guilt_.

A sneer curls his lips. Gods below, he hated to feel even so much as a thread of humanistic emotion. The demon swallows thickly, shoving it down as he always does, down into that dark pit within his stomach where he suppresses all that may suggest he is anything but the perfectly composed, cold and calculating Devil Lord Ulbert designed him to be.

After Nazarick was transported to the New World, unfamiliar sensations began to trickle into him, little by little.

At first, Demiurge believed himself to have somehow fallen ill-perhaps an unknown side effect of trans-dimensional travel. However, he could not confidently diagnose what was causing him to react as he did to certain things- and it wasn't until he found himself on Malphas' doorstep in the wee hours of the morning that it became clear that these symptoms were not merely an unpleasant combination of a sour stomach and a possible brain tumor, but _feelings_.

Another chill rolls through him, and he realizes he has been standing in the center of the room, staring unseeing into oblivion. He frowns and his tail whips in irritation; the most disconcerting thing about these unfamiliar emotions is that they leave him disarmed, unbalanced.

_Vulnerable._

Demiurge refocuses his attention to the bed. The promise of warmth, of resting for a bit longer with his brother is enticing, and he slides beneath the sheets, stealthily, so as not to wake Malphas.

His head comes to rest on the pillow, and his gemstone gaze settles upon his brother's face. Demiurge searches his features in silence, taking this priceless gift for what it is: a chance to memorize him before he again must return to Nazarick for... he doesn't know how many months this time.

Malphas' features, so much like his own, are serene in slumber, his lips parted and stray strands of spilling raven hair tangle with his feathery lashes. Not even the most talented marble smith could hope to sculpt a visage so exquisite- no, only a Supreme Being is capable of forging such magnificence.

Why Lord Ulbert ever felt the need to recreate his elder brother- as though Malphas was _not_ already the height of perfection, _a true masterpiece_ \- is beyond him.

The scientist in him queries, wants to determine and examine from all angles what his Lord could have possibly deemed as a flaw so severe that he believed his creation must be rebuilt; but Demiurge's ingrained loyalty to his Creator defiantly snarls that he should never question the ineffable plans of the Supreme Ones.

Still, it bothers him. Malphas can command legions of shadows to do his bidding, is a master of fire magic and his brute strength and defensive power rivals Albedo's. Why would Lord Ulbert be dissatisfied with such a remarkable demon?

To create himself, Malphas' shape had been streamlined to be shorter, lither, and his facial features sharpened to achieve a more impish appearance, his intelligence and speed heightened, but a smaller frame resulted in reduced strength.

However, it did not escape Demiurge's attention that the majority of what was changed was almost entirely cosmetic... which leaves him to wonder- could it have all been for _vanity?_

 _'No, this is a blasphemous train of thought.'_ The demon scolds himself for daring to tread in forbidden waters.

Demiurge's jaw works as he tucks beneath the sheets and watches the steady, even breath of the Devil next to him. The muscles in his throat tighten as he swallows down the rising lump, an upwelling of years of suppressed emotions, and he feels his brows draw in with discontent.

He doesn't want to leave Malphas behind again.

And so, he shifts a little closer to his brother to feel his breath pool warmly against his shoulder, as near as he possibly can be without touching him and closes his eyes to savor his comforting scent of wildfire and cinnamon amidst undertones of leather, sage and sandalwood.

He smells like warmth, comfort, and familiarity- _like home,_ before it had been broken, before they had been ripped away from one another.

Malphas begins to stir when he feels the gentle slide of Demiurge shuffling towards him. Having slept like the dead after a night of ravenous rutting and drinking, his eyes feel pleasantly weighted, heavy - and he doesn't open them just yet. He allows himself to bask in the warmth and weight of the body before him, and listen to the soft cadence of Demiurge's breath.

When Demiurge was here, he could actually fool himself into believing this was his home- that he _belonged_ here. He wouldn't jolt awake from an exile-induced nightmare, drenched in a cold sweat with his heart crashing against his chest, or simply lie in bed for hours wishing he still had something, _anything_ that carried his brother's scent to lull him to sleep. Only when he was here did everything in his world feel aligned, _complete_.

Malphas knows if he opened his eyes to meet Demiurge's at this moment, they'd glitter with a kaleidoscopic, opaline brilliance in the morning light.

He maintains the illusion of sleep for a few moments longer, allowing Demiurge a moment to change his mind and take his leave if he so chooses. But Malphas gives himself away as his lips inevitably curve into a smile when he feels Demiurge's breath puffing against his shoulder.

Purring with soft acknowledgement, Malphas stretches one arm out to drape over his younger brother's shoulder, pulling him closer.

He feels Demiurge tense, that same instinctive reaction that suggests deep-seated doubt more than anything else. Malphas brings his hand up higher, to stroke against the back of Demiurge's head instead, gently carding his fingers through his hair in a gesture of reassurance.

His younger brother was resistant to affection outside of lust; a complexity in his creation, but he was granting him quite a bit of slack today. Rarely did Demiurge allow for this level of intimacy; the last time he let Malphas hold him like this was right before he was stripped of his title as Seventh Floor Guardian and 'transferred' here to oversee the Bicorn ranch instead. So Malphas knows that there must be something that he needs from him.

But to enjoy this for even a moment longer, Malphas is quite willing to pay whatever price Demiurge has set.

When he finally opens his eyes, Demiurge's instantly snap to him, sharp and hawk-like. As suspected, his eyes shimmer in mesmerizing, chromatic splendor.

"Good morning." Malphas murmurs, his voice rumbling like distant thunder with sated satisfaction. He shifts, bringing himself closer to Demiurge. With a metallic rasp of steely plates, Malphas corkscrews his tail around his brother's and sighs contentedly.

The smaller demon allows himself to be drawn close, eyes shuttering as Malphas combs his claws through his dark mane. Demiurge inhales steadily as he finally relaxes into his touch and nestles his head beneath Malphas' chin, his breath warming the hollow of the elder demon's throat. Malphas can smell faint traces of human blood, still fresh from the night before- he must have performed experimental surgery.

"Good morning," Demiurge quietly replies. "I had to make use of your shower."

He keeps his eyes closed. It's too much right now to see Malphas like this, looking at him as he always does the morning after and holding him like he never wants to let him go; like caustic acid, it relentlessly eats at something inside of him which he would rather not acknowledge. Demiurge shifts in an attempt to dislodge the sensation.

"I used your towel." He adds, knowing how Malphas loves when he leaves his scent on his things.

Demiurge then chances a glance upwards.

"Mm. Could I convince you to give the same blessing to the rest?" A playful suggestion from Malphas, his lips curling into that roguish smirk that never fails to make his pulse skip as he slides the calloused pads of his fingers over Demiurge's hipbone.

"Perhaps."

Malphas cards his fingers through Demiurge's hair once more, and glides his palm further up to cup the back of his head and hold him softly against him, following an impulse to lay Demiurge's heartbeat over his own to feel them sync.

He doesn't want this moment to end- he wants to lock it away in his heart for safekeeping, so it might keep him warm on the lonely nights when he awakens to a cold and empty bed.

Unfolding the arm which he had been resting his head on, Malphas slips it under the sheets and lets his hand splay low over Demiurge's back, fingertips just skimming the dip of his spine, bleeding warmth into copper skin that is just a shade darker than his own.

Malphas ducks his head to bury his nose into his brother's hair, and whispers, "I've missed you so much, Demiurge."

His heart answers within his chest, a single, plaintive throb as Malphas' words silently obliterate and then reform him.

Demiurge does not reply, but the tightening of his tail around Malphas' own and the flattening of his ears says enough. The moment then crystallizes into something delicate and fragile, and a single melancholy note plucks between them, threatening to shatter it, as it always does when Demiurge has to leave soon and they both know it.

Demiurge hesitates in asking for what he came here for, leaving it unsaid for the time being, because he has come to realize how much he too has missed Malphas.

He braces against his brother as Malphas' arm encircles him, and pulls him into the elder Devil's chest. Demiurge looks up and catches his brother's sapphire gaze, full of longing.

Longing for just an hour. A few minutes. A mere moment more before he must return to the Tomb.

Malphas' palm glides slowly over his bare skin, and Demiurge melts into him, sighing as Malphas' lips brush against his brow in a pleasantly feverish touch, sweetly searing to his hypersensitive skin.

* * *

**_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!**

As the title states, I'll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories.

Today, I'd like to recommend [Real Life on the Seventh Floor,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506664/chapters/41237897) by Kensalyn!

_Summary: You just wanted something to remember Yggdrasil by. That's all. You didn't think you'd end up bringing an entire living NPC home with you._

This story is so wholesome and heartwarming. Seriously some of the best of soft Demiurge.

Below is a drawing of Lady Zoba. This character has one of the coolest designs ever!


	14. Enough

"I suppose I cannot allow you to return to Nazarick looking as though you have been mauled." Malphas muses, running an onyx talon down Demiurge's chest. It stings sweetly like the touch of flame- sharp, precise and quick to fade. "Although, I very much enjoy seeing you so beautifully painted in carnal colors."

"Mmm." Demiurge hums in agreement. "And I relish being your canvas. Unfortunately, I doubt Lord Ainz will find it as aesthetically pleasing as you or I. You went a bit too high this time."

Demiurge was referring to how the collar of his shirt would normally hide the marks, but as he said, Malphas could not have cared less in the heat of the moment, and in the urge to taste every inch of him, strayed too high along his throat.

"Most unfortunate indeed. I'll retrieve a potion for you then." Malphas says with a kiss to his neck, and reluctantly extricates his limbs from around the smaller demon to rise to his feet. Demiurge's diamond eyes rake over Malphas' body in motion, and he drinks in the sinuous ripple of leonine brawn as the six-foot-six Arch Devil stretches with a weary groan, making Demiurge lick his lips without shame. Striding to his armoire, Malphas pulls the double doors open and begins to rifle through his clothes.

The demon is built with thick slabs of muscle- smooth, defined and utterly massive like a marble statue; the width of his shoulders emphasizes the band of muscle around his hips, delineated by the sharp V that deliciously frames his groin. His back is immaculately carved with heavy sinew, and Demiurge's eyes are drawn to the furrow along his spine that leads to two faint dimples above the base of his armor-plated tail. He is predatory perfection; if Demiurge is designed for an elegant and stealthy hunt, Malphas is built for a brutal blunt-force kill.

"Could I trouble you for a spare?" Demiurge sees his opening. "I'm working on a new experiment; one which centers around the complexity of the human hippocampus. It is so far promising, but I fear my subject's brain damage may be permanent if I cannot administer something stronger than what I have on hand at the Tomb."

"A spare potion, hmm?" Malphas casts a glance of mock skepticism back at his brother, and Demiurge abandons the bed.

"It would be greatly appreciated." Demiurge adds and approaches his brother with a flirtatiously flamboyant swing of his tail.

"Then I suppose it wouldn't hurt if I made a few more marks before we wipe the slate clean?" Malphas insinuates, and reaches for his chin to pull him forward, his tongue hot and sinful, tasting of bloodwine and dark lust as he traces the seam of his mouth. Demiurge moans softly as he unseals his lips, letting him in. Desire settles beneath Demiurge's breastbone like a sun-baked stone, and he meets the kiss head-on.

As his tongue sieges his mouth, the elder Devil draws his talons lightly over Demiurge's ribs, with just enough pressure to cause a delicious frisson to zip through his body.

The crush of his lips is achingly luscious. A molten purr rumbles from Demiurge's chest as he slides his tongue into Malphas' mouth, licking slowly, sensually.

Malphas groans heatedly in response and spins him around to pull his back to his chest, holding him close there, and Demiurge shifts his hips back against Malphas who chuckles at how eager he is.

Malphas ducks his head and presses hot lips to Demiurge's jaw as reverent hands trace the immaculately sculpted muscles of Demiurge's abdomen, admiring the statuesque elegance of his form, trailing lower to graze teasing fingers around the base of his shaft.

His brother is a work of art, an exquisitely carved creation, Ulbert's gift to Nazarick, his lasting legacy.

_Marvelous._

Under his touch, Demiurge comes to life. Cool plates of platinum slither around Malphas' hips, pulling him flush to his body. Ivory fangs trace the sinuous curve of Demiurge's neck, threatening to snag the tender flesh, his tongue leaving wet-hot swaths as he finally curls his fingers around his length, stroking slowly with an agonizingly gentle grip, just enough to make him thicken in his palm, heavy and hard. Demiurge makes a strangled groan of pleasure, and bucks into his hand, ever impatient and hungry for something more aggressive.

"So impatient..." Malphas chides, keeping his pace excruciatingly unhurried and nipping his way over Demiurge's shoulders, then down his back where he traces his tongue over every dip and rise of his spine before finally bending him forward over a dresser.

Demiurge remains pliant, spine arching with feline grace to suit Malphas' position and pleasure, leaning forward to feel the lacquered wood press cold and unforgiving into his chest. A scathing swipe of Malphas' tongue over the punctures he scored into Demiurge's nape makes the Seventh Floor Guardian tremble. 

"How I wish you could keep this." Malphas laments with a kiss over his restraint bite. He loves this one most of all.

_'Mine.'_

"As do I..." Demiurge replies and snares his lower lip between his teeth, but they both know they must keep the evidence to a minimum.

But it still brings the elder Devil comfort to know that Demiurge will leave here carrying his scent back to Nazarick and will spread it on his pillows to keep him close, to breathe him in.

"Malphas..." Demiurge whines, and the towering Devil rumbles low in response before suddenly yanking him up from the dresser, and then hurling him effortlessly onto the mattress.

Demiurge's pulse spikes, a thrill whipping through his veins like lightning. He loves when Malphas gets rough with him- he _craves_ sexual aggression, whether it is give or take.

"Face down," Malphas commands. "Don't move."

Demiurge complies without resistance, and rolls onto his belly to rest on his elbows as Malphas continues mouthing over his skin in a laving reverence that makes the Seventh Floor Guardian whine for more.

Malphas flips his tail over his back and spreads him with both hands, breathing ever so lightly against where Demiurge is most sensitive, before leaning in close and swiping the tip of his tongue over his furled entrance.

Demiurge lets out a visceral groan into the pillow as he registers the wet heat and pressure of Malphas' tongue, a curve sweeping through his spine as he settles further onto his forearms. The second pierce, just a tad deeper than the first has his fingers curling into the sheets. A hot coil of desire unwinds in his stomach, pushing a gasping moan past his lips.

Each velvety caress of Malphas' tongue is followed by scorching moist breath that quickly cools against Demiurge's flesh, making him shudder. He reaches back and grasps his shaft, solid and throbbing in his hand.

"Deeper," Demiurge breathes, a tremulous plea. His hips press back into the warm mouth that teases the silken vice of his body. Demiurge's tail coils, silvery and serpentine around Malphas' thick bicep as his ministrations cause him to break out into a light sheen of sweat, turning his flesh into dewy bronze. "Fuck..."

And Malphas savors it- how the coral flush of his cheeks brightens, every twitch and tremble, every curse, hitched breath and rich, broken cry that Demiurge fails to cage behind gritted fangs.

Demiurge's body is made for this, for _him_ ; how he moans, how he whimpers in breaths pulsing hot past his parted lips- such lovely sounds no one else could ever hope to pull from the normally stoic demon; try as others may, but none will succeed in breaking him as he does, no one will hear the soft-spoken murmurs of adoration in the ancient language that they share between them. _Just between them._

He slips his fiendishly long tongue along the silky skin of Demiurge's sac up to his entrance again. Malphas strokes slowly, deliberately, and holds him open just enough to push the tip in and feel the spasm of pleasure that clenches the muscles around his tongue, that reduces Demiurge's entire being into a trembling, whimpering mess.

Malphas' lips peel back in the most insidious of grins as he hears the muffled sob Demiurge expels into the sheets, and presses in further.

 _Hades_ , he breaks so beautifully for him.

He slides his hands away, for just a moment, spreading Demiurge's thighs further and drawing a choked plea from the living masterpiece before him. A rare creature, exquisitely and uniquely crafted by divine artisan's hands, Demiurge is his own private reserve of omnipotent nectar, to be sipped and savored. 

And Malphas worships him as such.

Jolting with a sharp exhale as Malphas' tongue pierces him deeper than before, a honeyed snarl tears itself from his chest. Demiurge tenses in ecstatic resistance, his cock throbbing in tandem with his hammering heart, gradually pouring a glossy pool of pre-come onto the black satin sheets. He wants it harder, faster, deeper, _everything_ \- all at once. He's so hard it _hurts._

Demiurge gasps into the sheets, smearing the fluid over his shaft to make himself slippery wet. 

"Don't stop..." Demiurge begs, a whimper snaring in his voice, laden with desperation. His surroundings fade from his peripheral as his vision tunnels, until all that remains is wet flesh, heavy pants, the buttery thick tang of arousal. Until he is little more than sensation, and loses himself in the maelstrom of blinding ecstasy that burns phosphorus bright behind his eyes.

Malphas obliges, and doesn't even slow down when Demiurge starts to fall apart in his hands- he only stops when he can smell his body's cry for release as he nears the edge, fangs bared and eyes screwed shut, clawing at the sheets with one hand and the other tight around his shaft as he strokes with an almost painful grip. Malphas' acute hearing detects the wet splat of a burst of pre-come, and he catches Demiurge's hand to still him before he is past the point of no return.

"Not yet," He murmurs into his trembling back. "Be patient."

The order draws a strangled whine from him, long and shaking, and his tail rattles with restraint.

"Shhh..." Malphas coos and presses his body over Demiurge's for just a moment, just enough to allow Demiurge to melt back into him. "I know."

Demiurge is still a relatively young Incubus, and patience is a virtue, one that Malphas' brother is still very much learning when it comes to sex.

Malphas rolls him onto his back and their mouths meet, sliding smoothly together and their tails corkscrewing around one another with a metallic susurration.

"Look at you…" He breathes, eyes hooded and glittering like chips of obsidian, so dark with desire that they are almost black, his throat working to swallow before he leans down to kiss him again. "It's exquisite, the way you break for me."

Eyes alighting like crystallized white fire from the lavish praise, Demiurge winds his arms around Malphas' neck, pulling him close, and shivering at the silky softness of the raven hair that tickles over his shoulders. The elder Devil's body settles in over his brother's, dense and heavy with primal power and muscle. 

Nipping and nuzzling along the hard line of Malphas' jaw and cheek, Demiurge is content to bury his face against his neck and let his mouth come to rest against his thrumming pulse with gentle bite.

"My beautiful brother, have you any idea how tempting you are?" Malphas murmurs, cupping the back of his head gently and Demiurge makes a small, broken sound, frightening in its frailty and his eyes pinch shut as he tries to still the trembling in his limbs. It is simultaneously _shattering_ and comforting, how reminiscent his brother is of Lord Ulbert; his voice dark and deep and smooth like black velvet, an echo of his Creator's. He mirrors his Master's movements in how he carries himself, every muscle of his body boasting effortless dominance.

Demiurge's tail constricts around Malphas'.

Here and now, Demiurge is truly vulnerable, disarmed and laid bare, but a low, rumbling purr from his brother resonates like late summer thunder through his bones and soothes him, reminds him that he is safe.

Slowly, Malphas backs off to come to rest on his knees between Demiurge's legs, spreading them farther with his own.

"Demiurge," His voice strikes clearly through the red velvet haze that has settled over the Seventh Floor Guardian's mind. Malphas' palm slides over his own rigid member now, fingers gathering the crystal thread of pre-come to smear it over his length. "Look at me."

_'You are perfection, my other half, my everything. You complete me.'_

Demiurge's eyes crack open, having drifted closed as he languorously strokes himself, lips parted just enough to allow soft moans to pass, the gleaming head of his cock flushed angry purple and a milky stream rolls tantalizingly down his length. 

He then reaches up to slide a hand down Malphas' cheek and lets his thumb drift over his mouth, tracing the lush curve of his perfectly molded lips before slipping between them to admire the sharpness of his fangs. Malphas' tongue twirls around his claw before drawing it further in between his lips with a firm suck.

Their eyes meet, sapphires to diamonds. Much like his brother's, Demiurge's are heavy-lidded and simmer with lust, and his back bows suddenly to drive himself against Malphas' body so he can glide the blunt head of his weeping member over the hard, hot muscle of his abdomen, seeking contact, friction, _anything_ to alleviate the blissful strain of being so hard that it makes his vision swim.

"Please..." Demiurge pleads again, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. A lovely pink blush glows over his cheekbones and his hair is wild with stray strands plastered to his forehead. He looks utterly debauched and Malphas delights in how he shivers exquisitely from the sweat evaporating from his flesh.

Only now is Malphas satisfied Demiurge has suffered enough- when he is utterly _dripping_ with desire and so desperate for friction that he will gladly grind himself to completion.

Malphas smiles, all fangs, and his eyes flicker with sadistic delight. Then he ducks his head and kisses Demiurge as he aligns himself and with a steady push, he sinks the first four inches into his molten heat with one smooth, brutal thrust.

He then lunges forward, forgoing any gentleness just to feel the coarse breath it crushes from Demiurge's lungs when he nearly hilts himself. Malphas groans, visceral and deep, and for a moment he can barely move; it never fails to amaze him, the staggering perfection of their fit. He only returns to himself when Demiurge squeezes around him, writhing in excruciating ecstasy as Malphas finally bottoms out, the cruel stretch of eight inches of steel setting his brother's blood ablaze. One massive hand slides up to wind into Demiurge's hair to yank his head back until his spine curls off the bed. Malphas then leans down and clamps his jaws onto the curve of Demiurge's neck, viciously enough to draw blood.

When Malphas moves, it isn't gentle or tender, not anymore. He snaps forth with the rawest snarl of animalistic possession, and when he drags his tongue up the side of Demiurge's face, his brother wraps his legs around his hips and sinks his fangs into Malphas' shoulder in retaliation. Talons rake deeply into the elder Devil's back, and Malphas' hands stamp bruises into Demiurge's thighs where he holds him spread for his pleasure.

Ivory fangs latch onto Demiurge's clavicle and Malphas tugs Demiurge so close against him it is nearly impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins- they are molten copper and bronze, folding into one another, flashing fangs of pearl and tails writhing like serpents of sterling silver. Malphas then shallows his thrusts, and angles Demiurge just so to feel him jolt from the white-hot pleasure that flares through him as he grazes his prostate. Over and over, again and again and again until Demiurge is nearly convulsing under him, voice free and ragged with rapture.

Demiurge snarls, lips curling and gasping beneath Malphas' teeth as an inky black miasma opens wide beneath him to swallow them whole. His hand shoots forward and grasps Malphas by the throat to squeeze against arteries that hum with his thundering pulse. It is fierce resistance he offers as his fingers threateningly clench beneath Malphas' chin, even as Demiurge's body bows then pulls tight in surrender of the pressure driving hard into him.

His entire awareness narrows to trembling, sweat-slicked muscles. A luscious flexing, heated breath, the thick slide of Malphas' cock and his heart beating like the hollow drum of wings in his ears.

Malphas plunges mercilessly, every pump of his hips drawing a vehement cry, savage and unrestrained, tearing Demiurge apart at seams already frayed - the elder Devil was pounding too deep, too hard.

_Violent._

And Demiurge wouldn't have it any other way.

Bucking his body in defiance against the Devil mounted atop him, Demiurge struggles, his internal muscles tightening deliciously around his brother's girth as he digs his heels in and cinches his thighs over Malphas' hips to trap him in place as he tries to roll them. Demiurge attempts to push him off to claim a dominant position, but Malphas holds him down effortlessly with strength that is terrifying in its superiority, and he can feel the tiger beneath his brother's skin, twisting, trying to tear itself free as it senses prey below. Unable to seize control, Demiurge lunges upward and bites into Malphas' shoulder instead, piercing his skin and tasting the burst of molten ruby spilling into his mouth.

Tracing his tongue along the jagged points of his fangs, crimson-stained and sharp, he delights in the coppery sweet ringing over his tongue. Demiurge grins against the livid mark he's left, knowing that for as deep as Malphas is buried in him, he's equally deep inside Malphas. Under his skin, coursing through his veins, and nestled safely in the back of his mind at all times. They are inextricably intertwined, melded beyond body, beyond mind.

Teeth gnash and talons rend flesh as they savagely snarl at one another like wolves engaged in vicious play, that to any but themselves would appear as hateful, until Malphas bares his fangs in a grin and rips Demiurge's grasp away from his throat to pin his wrist above his head, lacing his fingers with his, holding fast.

And with the release of guttural laughter from each, the fight ceases, the thrashing devolving into quick undulations, their bestial snarls softening into pleas. Malphas twists, just enough to maneuver his free hand between them and grip Demiurge and feel him throbbing and sticky-wet with need.

"Come for me. _Fucking come."_ Malphas seethes as he feels hot blood pulse from the bite on his shoulder to weave trails of crimson down his chest.

Demiurge is already at his limit of endurance and ecstasy, and he erupts after three strokes with a staggered gasp against Malphas' throat, spilling in creamy jets all over his hand, painting their chests in pearl. 

It's enough for Malphas to snarl and throw himself forward to sink his fangs into the thick cords of Demiurge's neck, his muscles locking in rapture as he spurts endlessly inside his clutching heat, his massive body trembling like an oak in a storm. 

_"Malphas!"_ His name leaves Demiurge's lips on an obscene moan and his claws rip scarlet stripes across Malphas' shoulder blades as he can feel the sweet warmth of every milky wave lapping into him.

Malphas' arm sags and then slides downward to rest just above Demiurge's head, fingers now slack, but still intertwined with his brother's. He presses his forehead to Demiurge's, which is as close to a kiss either can manage at the moment as they gasp for air, slowly coming down from the earth-shattering release.

The ache in Malphas' shoulder is the least of his concern, and the mess doesn't matter – not the rips and holes in the sheets, not the blood, the sweat, nor the release streaking their bodies. The only thing that matters here and now is the brother he loves with every fiber of his being panting in his arms.

Malphas wants it to mean something.

Demiurge has never verbally returned his sentiments, and what they have and what it means to him has never been quite clear, as Demiurge is colder than he, and less adept at expressing more complex emotions- such is his design. But Malphas supposes what it means doesn't really matter. 

_It means._

And for Malphas, that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy authors will return shortly! :3


	15. Enough (Artwork)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork for this chapter. Warning for Demiurge cock. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	16. Denial

Warmth. Softness.

You are encased in plush heat, from head to toe. Cocooned in the tranquility of a familiar silk, like a caterpillar. It is so soothing, so secure.

Unwelcome awareness slowly seeps into your mind, rousing you from your slumber.

Letting out a drowsy sigh, you wiggle your feet a little to feel the rose-petal softness flow like warm water over your legs. Your eyelids flutter lightly before you decide to shutter them closed again, unwilling to acknowledge anything but the cocoon of comfort that cradles you like a cloud.

Several languid minutes later, you crack an eye and take in the wavering firelight that flickers off the walls of your room. It occurs to you to worry that you may have overslept, but you defiantly burrow deeper, unwilling to break the spell yet.

You wonder if this is why it takes caterpillars so long to emerge- it's easy to imagine they likely have their lacy little wings long before they break free of their chrysalises.

The silence in your tiny space is peaceful, filled only with the steady cadence of your breathing and the distant crackle of flame. After enduring the nightmare of the brothel and living in cramped squalor with only the sounds of agonized moans and screams to lull you to sleep, you've finally been gifted with solitude and silence.

You doze on and off, up to your nose in the silken bliss you've tightly wound yourself in, dreaming of lakes of fire and ancient gods of stone, crumbling within a wasteland as they are forgotten by time. Feeling yourself falling into oblivion, you jolt awake.

While your heart rate stabilizes, anxiety creeps in with spider-like fingers and prods you into a greater state of awareness.

What if you are late for your duties?

Reluctantly giving in to it, you sleepily stir with a groan.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, an ache in your core rips through the pleasant fog with a bolt of violence. Through bared teeth you hiss and wince, willing yourself to sit up further.

Your lips curve downward into a puzzled frown. _'What the Hell?'_

Naked. You are completely naked.

_Why...?_

Eyes darting around the room, you search for something which may help jog your memory.

But at the moment, you are drawing a total blank on the past twenty-four hours.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the ache in your core flares to life with an insistent throb.

Why does... _that_ hurt? A few locks of golden hair spill over your eyes as you lean over and gently explore yourself.

You hiss in pain; you are terribly tender- the inner folds feel sort of... bruised?

_'Oh no...no, no, nonono...'_

Such an ache is unsettling in its familiarity- it plagued you after each client you endured in the brothel. A faint, cold tingle of fear makes your cheeks go numb.

Gripping the corner of the nightstand to steady yourself, you tentatively rise to your feet.

Anxiety piles on, higher and heavier as your arms, legs and back cry out in strained protest, more so than usual after a day of bending and stooping to clean the Tomb. In fact, you feel as though you've been violently pummeled, like tenderized meat.

"What the Hell did I do last night?" You mutter to yourself as you groggily shuffle towards the bathroom.

Rounding the corner, you come face-to-face with your reflection in the bathroom mirror and your world shrinks dizzyingly to a pinpoint as a gasp of shock bursts from your lungs.

Splotchy bruises of red and purple bloom lividly to adorn your throat and collarbone like visceral jewelry, and you begin to shake.

Sagging against the door frame, you can see your eyes blow wide as they rake over the gruesome color palette of the marks in utter disbelief. All are ovular and scored with puncture wounds.

_Fangs._

Your broken cry shatters the fragile silence as a wave of icy dread crashes over you. Nailing your eyes to your reflection, you slowly slip two digits through your folds, spreading yourself so that you can see.

Other than a bit of swelling, everything looks relatively normal.

Still, that offers little relief in light of all other evidence. You are no stranger to bruises of this nature- they indisputably indicate carnal relations.

_'How did I get back to my room, and how in the Hell did I get these...?!'_

Dejectedly tearing your gaze away from your reflection, your eyes shutter closed as you try to recall something, _anything_ that may have happened before this morning. But looming in place of your memory is nothing but swarming darkness.

You don't believe you drank anything, nor do you remember taking any potions, so there is no reason why you shouldn't be able to recall the night before. 

This doesn't make any sense! You thought you were getting better!

With a shake of your head, you draw a couple of deep breaths, trying to silence the ringing in your ears brought about by spiraling anxiety.

 _'You know how these happened. There is only one explanation.'_ The cruel voice of logic gnaws at your denial.

Leaning over the marble sink, you curve your neck to the side and gingerly press at the tender bruises, then draw back to meet your anguished stare once more. As time ticks by, the silence grows needle-like claws that sink into your mind, sowing an unsettling disquiet.

Shaking fingers fumble with the faucet handles, then you cup your hands to collect from the running spout and splash water over your face. Glaring back at your reflection, you watch droplets stream down the divots and curves of your features like spilling tears.

The primal fear in your eyes is accompanied by a murky wave of self-loathing... self-loathing and _rage_.

_'I don't want to be a victim anymore.'_

With a scoff of disgust, you reject the haunted expression you wear and resign yourself to the shower, desperate for a wash.

Your body is operating solely on autopilot as you lather up a loofah, and your mind works overtime cross-examining every fragmented memory of the past twenty-four hours, putting each under the microscope for clues as to your current state.

A sigh of relief gusts over your lips as hot water washes over you, soothing the ache in your muscles and sapping away some of your tension. When you grip the slippery bar of soap, the sensation of your hands sliding over a slick slab of chilled meat glimmers through your mind.

 _'That's right...'_ You held it in place on the cutting board to saw off a filet.

But your victory is short-lived as you suddenly recall rivulets of ruby streaming over your fingers, triggering the disturbing flashback of your final night in the brothel; your nails raking at that monster's face, how you made him scream, how his fear and pain made you feel so... _powerful_.

"Are you alright, dear?" Pestonya noticed how you had fallen into a trauma-induced trance, and was so sweet as to offer to take over and finish cooking for you, but you had declined out of fear of being alone with your thoughts.

At some point you and the head maid had a conversation about Wagyu, and then you carried the plate of steak to your Master's quarters... but after that, nothing.

Do you have a concussion? Is that why you have such a massive gap in your memory? Carding your fingers through your sopping hair, you blindly feel for tender spots on your scalp. But nothing on your head is particularly sore, no lumps nor abrasions.

And yet, you can't help but feel that cold stone of dread settling heavily into your stomach, sending a ripple of dark disturbance throughout your entire being that screams something is terribly, terribly wrong.

You shut the water off and step out, feeling a tad bit better- refreshed, if nothing else. But what are you going to do about the horrific marks on your neck? Leaving your room looking like this will result in nothing but awkward stares and uncomfortable questions which you are currently incapable of answering.

 _'Damn it...'_ You had just recovered from the bruises you arrived with, and now you are sporting a fresh new set.

The cabinet yields a luxuriously plush towel which you use to dry off with, and you then sit on the edge of the shower, wrapped in the flimsy sense of security it provides while you contemplate your next move.

Rummaging through the drawer beneath the sink, you find the container of creamy foundation. Dredging your digits through it, you dab a generous amount over the gruesome bites and use a fluffy brush to seamlessly even out the hue using soft little stipples. While the shadows of the marks still bleed through the pale veil, they're mere ghosts of the horror that marred your skin before.

Silently thanking the gods for make-up, you fluff your hair around your neck, effectively hiding the majority of the bruises.

With a sigh, you mutter, "It'll have to do."

You abandon the bathroom and head for the closet, and pull out a clean uniform. As you slip into it, you adjust your skirt, and a flash of memory skates across your mind- of having your skirt rucked up around your hips.

You freeze.

_Your skirt was shoved up as your thighs cinched tightly around a narrow waist, your hands immobilized above your head by a living shadow._

_A bestial snarl, and the deliciously decadent wet spurt of liquid warmth flooded your passage._

Your eyes fly wide open, and your back stiffens ramrod-straight as the missing memory slots into place like a piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

Crystalline eyes flare white-hot in your mind's eye, and it feels as though the breath has been crushed from your lungs as you are suddenly flooded with recollection.

"To be blunt, it means I own you. Like a pet, you are mine to _play with_ and _stroke_ when I please." His low, intimate purr bleeds darkly like a blot of ink spreading through your mind, and the phantom of savage rapture ripples through you.

_'Oh, gods...'_

You collapse to your knees, eyes staring unseeing at the floor, the seconds crawling by like years as cold, fluid dread replaces all the blood in your veins.

_Strong hands grasp your hips and a hot tongue swipes through your folds._

_The agonizing temptation accompanies the hard, heated press of his body._

_The damnation of each sinuous, addictive stroke of him sliding inside, and you can hear yourself moan in raw desperation, pleading for more of the depraved thing he was doing._

"No..." You had resisted him... _at first._

"Yes. You don't have a choice in the matter."

You let out a choked, dry sob of frustration. It's beyond fucked up, the way he puppeteered your body—the way every inch of your skin alighted with the brush of his fingers and the scorching wet lash of his tongue. Your channel clenches pleasurably, _treacherously_ at the memory.

He's done... _something_ to you, that much you are sure of, to make you feel such a way.

This alien desire cannot possibly be your own.

Only one thought is orbiting your mind, round and round, like a carousel of anxiety.

_Escape._

It is all you can think to do, the only remedy for the existential fear roiling, churning into a heavy, dark brew in your gut. If you cannot escape your own body's treason, perhaps you can escape _him_.

To where you would run, you haven't the faintest idea. But fight or flight demands action, to remove yourself from the potentially dangerous situation, and knowing you are beyond out-muscled, fight is out of the question.

 _'I won't be anyone's plaything ever again.'_ You adamantly swear, and it twists thorny vines around your heart that the raw carnality, the very _idea_ of being his Pet somehow _still_ sends a foreign thrill laced with despair racing through you, which you hastily bury. _'I won't break. Not for him, not for anyone.'_

Steeling your spine and fortifying your heart, you pull yourself off the floor and finish dressing. You decide you will spend the rest of the day planning while you work.

Quietly, you slip out of your room, and from down the hall the multi-faceted eyes of the dragons carved into the doors of Lord Demiurge's quarters sparkle at you, as though volunteering a solution to your predicament.

_'A single one of those gems would pay my way anywhere.'_

Stealing a knife from the kitchen to pry one out and trying to find an exit to the Tomb seems to be your best option. However, the only window on this Floor that you know of is in your Master's bedroom, and there is no way in Hell you will risk being caught in there when it is outside permitted hours.

You'll have to find another exit.

* * *

More Demiurge and Malphas art, because I have no self control. XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy authors will return shortly! :3


	17. Collusion

The daunting form of Lord Demiurge melts from the mouth of the corridor, the orange of his suit so bright that it almost burns into the air around him like flame. His footsteps echo the pounding of your pulse as he sees you staring at the doors to his quarters. Your face heats with embarrassment as moments ago you were considering stealing from him.

"Good morning, Pet." Demiurge's purr flows like silk from his tongue as he stalks in your direction. "I take it you slept well?"

_Pet._

"Y-yes, Master." You respond, and your breath courses short and quick through your nose as you bow.

"Good girl." You instinctively flinch when the Devil reaches for you, but he only gives your head a fond pat and strides past you to the towering bookshelf. His talons drum over each volume until he finds and withdraws his leather-bound book of choice.

You glimpse the title as it flashes with artfully inlaid gold leaf _; Paradise Lost._

"Master?" Scarcely more than a whisper, you meekly query. "Um... can I ask you something?"

Crystalline eyes glance over his shoulder before he replies with a passive "I suppose."

"I... I don't remember much from last night. What happened?" You try to fish for information by playing dumb. Had he drugged you? You didn't eat or drink anything you had not prepared yourself, so why you experienced memory loss this time is a mystery.

The demon turns to you, and the fanged grin that splits his face open makes your blood run cold. A conniving glimmer of mirth alights in his eyes. He then pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose before replying, "You served your Master, like a good girl."

His answer is unsatisfactorily vague, and you resent the pleasant shiver that comes from being called a good girl.

"Oh." You spinelessly reply, and quail from pushing the issue. From your peripheral, you see him tuck the book under his arm and stalk towards you, making your flesh prickle with needles of fear.

Claws tenderly brush away the locks of hair you had strategically fluffed around the bruises, and you jolt from the unexpected touch. He lowers his face next to your head and exhales hotly over the mark you had the most trouble concealing, his breath a lick of flame; a visceral throb in your core unfurls, spreading wide and fluttering like the fresh wings of a butterfly. You gasp as your nipples tighten, and he chuckles, lithe and dark.

It's alarming- no, _terrifying_ how eagerly your body responds to his touch.

Like your very cells remember him.

"I would say you recall well enough." He insinuates with an excruciatingly smug grin. "And I advise against playing dumb, as it does not suit you in the least, Pet."

 _'Shit.'_ Nothing gets past him.

"Now, you may go clean on the Ninth Floor. However-" The demon then feather-lightly swipes his fingers through the makeup caked over the bruises, and draws a brow at the streaks of creamy hue it leaves on his gloved digits. "This here can remain our little secret for today, and _only_ today, but let it be known that I do not appreciate you hiding what marks you as mine. Do you understand?"

_What marks you as his._

Every hair on your body stands on end as his declaration reiterates that you are not merely his assistant, nor his maid.

You are his slave, in every sense of the word.

_'Escape.'_

Your throat works with a hard swallow. "Y-yes, Master."

* * *

Your feet carry you down the dank corridor leading away from the Seventh Floor. The mineral smell of damp stone, spongy with moss, makes you feel grimy. Shadows from the flickering sconces jump and dance along the walls of ancient cobblestone, and you wonder if the creature that held you immobilized as Demiurge had his way with you is slithering amongst them.

Each step echoing into the darkness momentarily muffles the cacophony of your inner turmoil, insulating it between clashing layers of apprehension and determination.

With fists clenched tightly at your sides, you stare straight ahead and keep marching, clutching the final thread of your sanity with a white-knuckled grip.

Roiling anxiety churns dark and bitter in your mind, and you are but a passenger in your own body as a dozen scenarios of how your escape may play out race across your mind's eye.

Will your chances be better or worse if you scale your way down from a window, or if you slip out through a door? You consider tying your bed sheets together to manufacture a makeshift rope, but you would have to find a window that isn't in your Master's quarters.

If a window cannot be safely accessed, where would the nearest door to the outside be?

You honestly haven't a clue.

Has Lord Ainz posted armed guards at each entrance to the Tomb? If so, how the Hell will you get past them?

What if you are caught by the living shadow? Is it even possible to defend yourself against a phantom?

Shit, what if Greed rips you limb from limb?

But what bothers you above all else is knowing you will have to leave Tuare behind. You cannot help but feel reprehensibly selfish after all she has done for you, and know she be nothing short of devastated by the loss of her friend, just as you would be, were the situation reversed.

 _'Oh, shit...'_ What if Demiurge decides to target her in your stead?

You would never forgive yourself if the Devil set his sights upon her.

But you can't bring yourself to stay here. You just _can't._

At some point, you drift through the kitchen doors, and are vaguely aware of the mouthwatering scent of rosemary, lemon peel and roast chicken flooding your senses.

A distant voice echoes from what may as well be a million miles away as you gaze down at the blood-stained cutting board, and the butcher knife lying next to it. The reflection staring back at you on the blade's mirror-like surface is bleary-eyed, _lost_.

It is an all-too-familiar sight, one of which you had hoped to never see again. Your stomach turns with self-disgust.

 _'I won't be a victim. If I die trying to escape, I will have died fighting.'_ You promise yourself.

"Is everything alright, dear?" Pestonya's voice finally slices through the fog, and you jolt with a start.

Swallowing thickly, you reply "Y-yes, ma'am. Er- at least, I think so."

But Pestonya cocks her head in the fashion of a curious canine, indicating that you are fooling no one. Soft brown eyes, while identical to a dog's, harbor an unsettling gleam of humanistic intelligence and her nostrils flare, making you blush with the knowledge that she undoubtedly can still smell the Devil on you, despite having taken a shower.

You may as well be wearing a scarlet letter.

The head maid furtively glances to left, then right, and her voice drops, low and soft. "Does he hurt you?"

The blood in your veins freezes over as the color drains from your face. It's all the response she needs to confirm the truth.

"You don't have to answer me. But tell me this- if you could escape to a safe place, would you want to?"

But after being tricked into becoming a slave once more, inherent paranoia clawing in the back of your mind screams that this may be an elaborate trap, but you trust Tuare was being truthful when she said Pestonya is one of the only ones within Nazarick that likes humans.

_'The only way I won't be a victim anymore is if I can get away from him.'_

In light of your limited options, you take a chance, and cautiously nod.

"Meet me here, this evening, after you deliver Lord Demiurge's dinner."

Your heart stops cold in your chest.

She's actually going to help you _escape?!_

"Why are you helping me?" You ask, leveling her with a look of caution. "W-won't you get into trouble? With my Master? And... _Lord Ainz?"_

You fear your Master's wrath, but Lord Ainz is terrifying beyond all reason. What nightmarish repercussions will you face if you get caught by the Overlord himself?

"There... are _things_ , things that I am sure Lord Demiurge does not want you to know, but I believe you deserve to be made aware of." Pestonya says pensively. "This is not the first time you have set foot in Nazarick, dear."

Your jaw drops, and she raises a hand before you can bombard her with questions. "I will tell you what I know tonight. But for now, it is imperative that you do not say anything to anyone that may raise suspicions."

With that, you catalogue your countless questions for later. Favoring her with a grateful bow your head, you whisper, "Thank you... thank you so much."

_'Thank you for giving me hope.'_

The head maid's black lips draw back into a smile, and she clasps her hands together. "Now, this conversation never happened. You can tell no one, not even Tuare. I know how much she means to you, but for your own safety, no one can know."

It is then that the full gravity of having to leave your only friend behind settles heavily into your chest like a block of ice, cold and unwelcome. The walls seem to breathe, closing in around you.

The welling of unshed tears stings your sinuses, but it doesn't compare to the heartache of knowing you won't be able to bring yourself to say goodbye.

With a hard swallow, you push the lump clogging your throat down, down into that dark place where you bury your emotions.

"Let's proceed with preparing lunch, shall we?" She immediately snaps back to casual with a short wag of her tail.

But you, on the other hand, have a bit more difficulty pretending all is well as Pestonya's words circle round and round like a carousel in your mind.

What does she mean by _'This is not the first time you have set foot in Nazarick'?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy Authors will return shortly! :3


	18. Caught

**_***Evening***_ **

Whipping your head around, you scan your surroundings with wide eyes.

When you determine the coast to be clear, your hand slides into your apron pocket to withdraw the butter knives you had stolen from the kitchen- which the head maid had watched you take, but said nothing.

Carefully, you work to wedge the blade into the tiny crevice between the hollow of the dragon's eye and the edge of the gemstone, and use the handle of the second knife to tap the end of the utensil lightly in effort to dislodge the jewel.

After a few minutes of gentle chiseling, the adhesive holding it in place chips away, and you then lever the blade until the strawberry-sized sapphire pops out to land heavily into your palm. The surprising weight of it reiterates to you the gravity of what you have just done- that there is no going back after this, and your breath hitches with a sharp wave of anxiety as you tuck it into your apron's pocket.

If you have played your cards correctly, Demiurge is still on the Ninth Floor and will remain there for the at least twenty more minutes- which is barely enough time for you to haul ass to the kitchen where Pestonya is waiting for you.

With hands shaking and heart drumming deafeningly in your ears, and you whirl around to-

Time slows to a crawl.

Towering over you is Lord Demiurge, and by the severe expression on his face, there is no question that he has seen enough to condemn you for theft; his features are harshly etched with rage- you watch, frozen in terror, as his lips curl into a wolfish snarl to bare ivory fangs that glisten wetly in the dim firelight of the sconces lining the walls, sending your heart plummeting into Arctic waters.

_'Run. Run! RUN!'_ You internally scream, but under his smoldering gaze of crystallized white fire, your every muscle locks in paralytic indecision.

Cold fear trickles over your scalp and you begin to tremble as adrenaline spills into your veins.

You're _so fucked._

When an furious growl rumbles through his chest and reverberates through the marrow of your bones, your stasis crumbles.

In what seems to be slow-motion, you finally react; the muscles in your legs coil, and your body pitches forward as you launch into a sprint. Your forearm swings to shove your way past him as you bolt, but your feet only manage a single step before Demiurge's gloved hand flies to your throat. Suddenly your heels leave the ground as your neck is caged within inhumanly strong fingers and he effortlessly lifts you to crash your back into the doors. Your breath bursts from your lungs with a choked cry of shock, and the knife falls from your hand to clatter to the floor as he disarms you with brutal efficiency.

Demiurge raises his left hand, and terror rakes through you as you watch the talons of his fingers lengthen to nearly twelve inches with the sound of a quartet of blades being drawn.

This is it. This is how you die.

"What. The _Hell_. Do you think you are doing?" Each word is clipped from between the Devil's fangs, and his back crests with furious breaths.

Words utterly fail you at the moment thanks to fear causing your tongue to go numb in your mouth, and you curse yourself for dropping your only weapon.

"I asked you a question." He impatiently snarls, and you can practically hear the sizzle of caustic, black venom dripping from his lips and his grip tightens from dangerous to deadly.

"P-please," You finally choke out. "I-I'm sorry, have mercy..."

"Mercy?" He hisses, barely above a whisper. Disbelief and something far more lethal taints the air between you and the Devil. You feel the muscles of his hand twitch, as though he is debating whether or not he wants to follow through with crushing your windpipe, and you gulp nervously beneath his palm.

His crystalline eyes search your face as though he is gleaning for something- a muscle twitch, a facial tick, anything which may indicate deception.

_'Damn it all, he's going to know.'_ You decide then and there and no matter what he does to you, your lips are sealed; you won't let Pestonya take the fall for you.

_Her eyes shine with unshed tears...and all he wants to do is break her._

_How dare she try to steal from him!_

_He should disembowel her for such a trespass, for marring his brother's work, his grand gesture of a gift, one of the few things he still possesses which serves as a physical reminder that this Floor was once Malphas' home too._

_But no... she was his creator's treasured Pet, and now she is his, gifted to him by Lord Ainz himself. He cannot so carelessly dispose of her, no matter her offense. To do so would be a grave disrespect to both his creator and Lord Ainz._

_Demiurge supposes he can sculpt this in his favor, as he does with everything else._

He closes the distance and leans in uncomfortably close, speaking so that each word fans over your lips- a lick of flame you feel as well as hear. "Your audacity never fails to astound me," He snarls, and to your relief, his talons retract from gleaming black scythes to their normal length.

But then, he lunges and sinks his fangs into the curve of your neck, just above your shoulder. Had he aimed any higher, his canines would have procured a potentially lethal bite.

You fold under his storm of teeth and tongue, your jaw slackening with a broken cry of pain as you let him do as he will- which, at the moment, is to feast on your blood while he keeps you suspended in a strangle-hold.

Panting for breath, you watch the ceiling swim as the deep pull from his lips and scathing swipes of his tongue spark an illicit pleasure that lights through your veins, warming your flesh like sunshine.

"You think you can take what is mine? That there will be no repercussions for your actions?" He scolds after wiping the back of his gloved hand over his scarlet-stained mouth, the velvety timbre of his voice drops, evolving from annoyed to threatening. "You've yet to learn your place, Pet."

"I'm sorry," You whisper, trying for a conciliatory tone. "I shouldn't have touched it, but please- I was scared, I didn't know what to do-"

"And therefore, you thought stealing and fleeing from your Master was an acceptable solution?" His eyes burn into yours, scanning for falsehoods, reading the energy between your flesh and fear. "Do you have any idea as to how perilous it is outside of this sanctuary for a mere human? You are but a lamb ripe for slaughter."

_She is sincere in her regret, but it does little to quell his rage, and only confirms what he already suspected- she's young, foolish, and utterly clueless as to what he is capable of. Perhaps he should show her..._

_He then leans against her so that she can feel the growing erection concealed in his trousers. He sees it the instant she registers his arousal, blue eyes widening with a glassy glimmer as her lips part to gasp in surprise._

"If anyone else were to find you outside of these walls..." The demon growls and scrapes his fangs over the tender flesh of your jugular, and their needle-like points snag. You freeze, and hold your breath, terrified. "Not only would they have most violently had their way with you, but had they been inhuman, they would have devoured you afterwards, bones and all."

"Please, don't kill me," You entreat, struggling to breathe in his severe grip as he traces the arch of your throat, gathering a stray pearl of blood. The demon withdraws, and regards you. A hot trickle of blood rolls down your neck. "I'll do anything!"

Demiurge scoffs, your plea falling on deaf ears.

His stare is cold and unblinking, like a shark's as he allows himself a moment to mull over your sudden compliance.

_His gaze flickers from her lips to her teary eyes as he senses the distinct, golden thread of fearful yet intrigued excitement that imbues her energy. It remains undiminished in the wake of his brutality, giving him pause._

_"Why would you do this?" The demon rasps, "I've given you everything. All I ask in return is your compliance in servitude."_

_"I-I... I don't know." Her eyes are wide as she stares back at him._

_He glares at her, the wavering note in her voice indicative of deception. His eyes narrow, studying her and waiting for her to offer the truth in its stead, but she fails to do so. It infuriates him to know she never once lied to Lord Ulbert, yet so readily attempts to deceive him. Perhaps his Lord had broken her of that behavior when he first took possession of her._

_'Ah. Of course.' After wiping her memory, she would no longer recall her Master, nor his lessons._

_His new Pet simply needed to be housebroken once again._

"Is that so?" He lowers you until your feet find purchase again, then steps back to watch you suck in a desperate breath. After a moment, he affixes you with a blunt stare and to your relief, releases your throat.

"Then show me," Demiurge demands. "Show me _exactly_ how sorry you are."

You rub your neck and square your shoulders, trying to ignore the bright flare of fear coursing through you as you brace for the violence which is sure to come.

"I d-don't know how-"

You halt mid-sentence, blushing furiously as he shakes his head.

"You mistake words for actions." He smiles, all fangs, and slides his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "I said, _show me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy authors will return shortly! :3


	19. Given The Right Training

"You mistake words for actions." He smiles, all fangs, and slides his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "I said, _show me."_

Your mouth snaps shut and you watch with burgeoning fear as black flame materializes to lap at his heels, and his energy changes, brewing with a raw, primal quality, projecting a dark swarm of menace. It sends an icy chill dripping down your spine.

_'Oh, shit...'_

"On your knees." The demon commands. You obey, and immediately drop to the floor.

Your immediate assumption is that he wants you to give him oral.

But to your surprise, he instead raises one long leg and lands his heel firmly upon your shoulder, urging you down on all fours. To your relief, the flame wreathing his form, while uncomfortably warm, does not scorch your flesh as you had feared it would.

"Shine my shoes." He orders.

You glare up at him incredulously.

Shine... his _shoes?_

_'How? And with what?'_

Surely, he doesn't mean-

"Did. I. Stutter?" He impatiently bites out each word. "I'm waiting."

His foot slides further back to settle between your shoulder blades and he applies more weight, more pressure. Stunned by the fact that you are touching supernatural fire, you fail to follow his unspoken direction, and before you can gather your wits to do so, you find your cheek mashed mercilessly to the baked cobblestone of the ground, pinned in place by his shoe.

Unable to move, you can only stare straight ahead and watch his tail swing to and fro behind him like a deadly pendulum composed of spikes and armor. Your heart crashes against your ribs and you tremble, but you dare not make one false move.

"Do NOT test my patience as you have my generosity. To do so will be a grave mistake." The Devil seethes, threateningly shifting his weight and crushing a startled cry from your lips. "Now- _comply."_

To your relief, he withdraws and lets you up.

You hastily raise onto your elbows with your rear in the air, and begin to lick his shoe in earnest, using broad swipes of your tongue to wet every inch of the toe box of black leather. It tastes of bitter polish and makes your mouth tingle with a chemical effervescence. With your breasts pressed to the floor, you trace your tongue along the seams, leaving no portion but the sole untouched. An anxious upwards glance reveals a satisfied smirk, and you shuffle to his left side to give his other shoe the same lavish treatment.

"Good girl..." He offers praise in light of your degradation. "That wasn't so difficult, now was it?"

You are quick to shake your head, and pray he's satisfied with your effort.

"You fail to understand how fortunate you are to have been granted sanctuary here." He chides and suddenly yanks you to your feet, only to push you face-forward into the wall, making you yelp in surprise. He then rucks your dress up over your hips, and leans over you. "It would seem you need a lesson in discipline. Perhaps a firm hand is necessary in gaining your obedience?"

You feel his leather-clad palm slip between your legs and a finger hook around the silk he finds there, and then he yanks unforgivingly. The material tears away with such force that it stings the insides of your thighs, and you feel red welts rise.

"Please don't, I'm sorry!"

Demiurge winds a hand into your hair, pulling hard to crane your head back to his lips. It hurts, and yet his rough handling sends an unwarranted, forbidden thrill zipping down your spine.

 _"Sorry_ doesn't fix the priceless work of art that you so selfishly marred for your own personal gain!" He seethes in your ear, and you can hear the metallic clinking behind you as he hastily unfastens his belt.

Gods, is he pissed off.

You feel the silken head of his shaft slipping up and down along your folds, and a shriek rips from your throat as your body is suddenly breached with one smooth, brutal thrust. You blink furiously, your brows furrowing in distress at the invasion. Glancing back, you watch as he pumps shallowly, his eyes enrapt as he fixates on your face, measuring your fear with silent, sadistic interest.

Demiurge then suddenly lunges, plunging in further and crushing you against the wall. You cry out in shock as your tender tissues are violently stretched. It burns, as you are not sufficiently wet, nor ready.

Last night he was kind enough to lavishly prepare you to accept his impressive girth, and while it was still a stretch, taking him without adequate lubrication hurts. _A lot._

"Are you going to try to run away again?" He breathes in your ear, each word clipped and seething with menace.

"N-no!" You promise, unable to be anything but honest as his cruel grip holds you in place, your helplessness punctuated as his shaft slips deeper and your body tries to prevent further trauma by lubricating itself- but too little, too late. "I swear!"

"You had best not. Or you will have not only I, but _Greed_ to contend with." He threatens. "Do I make myself clear?"

A panicked whimper and tight nod are your response, and your hands splay and curl into fists against the wall as you grit your teeth in pain. Slowly, the initial burn begins to fade and is supplanted with a warmth that laps at the ache, slow and sweet like a tide of molasses.

Trapped and immobilized, you are powerless to do anything but feel. Your body responds, growing increasingly aware of how hard his body is beneath his suit in contrast to your feminine softness. His deep growls rumble through your back, visceral and low, and it somehow lulls you, the sound reverberating into your taut internal muscles. Gradually, they begin to relax around the marble-hard pillar of his shaft as his strokes even out to be less vicious.

 _'No... gods, no...'_ It was happening again. Your body is purring for his, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot ignore it, as you're so deliciously full of him that despair-laced ecstasy lights outward from where you are joined, muddying the waters of your resolve.

"Please- please stop-" You halfheartedly resist, but he only slows down, dragging out each perfectly measured stroke, and gods-be-damned, it makes your eyes roll back in your head.

"Oh, but my dear Pet, I can feel how _wet_ you are, how you grip and tighten around me." He coos, and shifts the angle of his hips, his hand on your hip hot steel. Suddenly blinding white lights burst behind your eyes as the lip of his glans glides over something inside you, and your legs nearly collapse out from under you. "You do not want to stop any more than I do."

He purposefully grinds into that same sweet spot, the pulsating ache of being split wide unraveling your every thought. Receding in your mind's eye, your resistance dims, a dying candle in a dark room.

The wet, hot slither of his withdrawal is exquisite, and you gasp, then release your breath with a sharp cry as he thrusts back in, impatiently coaxing your body into accepting his.

"You can pretend to hate this all you like, but I can _smell_ how you relish such a profane thrill." The molten purr of his voice sends you reeling yet again; your jaw drops open- to deny what you both know to be the truth, to draw breath, _anything_.

Instead, your head falls back with a hitched cry as he thrusts up into you with barely restrained violence. The muscles of your passage flutter spastically at the harsh penetration, and you moan as you melt into the lush, velvet oblivion.

Suddenly he rips you away from the wall and hurls you to the ground to crawl over top of you. The wind is punched from your lungs by the impact and you gasp and cough for breath. He then gathers your wrists to pin them on either side of your head, and wedges your thighs apart before slamming back into you with a rough groan.

You glance down with morbid curiosity to watch as his girth sinks in and out of you, and are fascinated by the way his shirt rides up to show a small portion of his chiseled abdomen flexing as he moves, a leonine power rippling beneath smooth, copper skin.

Holding you firmly in place, the demon gazes down at you, practically purring with smug pleasure. The smothered vestige of your humanity spills from your eyes as he molds you around his unyielding strength.

"You're going to learn proper submission," He says spitefully through bared ivory fangs, "you'll become agreeable enough, given the right... training."

His words barely register over the roar of blood in your ears.

Demiurge's breath is a scorch of heat over your offered throat, which he follows with a sharp bite. You gasp, waiting in morbid anticipation for him to rip out your jugular as his hips rock back. Instead, he then soothes the livid mark with a rough swipe of his tongue.

You dare to look up at him.

His eyes gleam behind his spectacles as the light hits them just right, an eye shine in the dark, a testament to the predator that hides beneath his humanoid disguise.

An icy veil of fear settles over your scalp, tingling its way down your neck.

_Tyger, Tyger, burning bright._

The Devil then slides an arm under your hips raise yours higher so as to meet him stroke for stroke, and he braces his other next to your head.

The shreds of your mind are aghast; you can _hear_ how obscenely wet you are from... this, for _him_ , and his faceted eyes shimmer with the knowledge that your resolve is once again breaking.

Finding your wrists free, your hands wind into his vermilion pinstriped jacket, holding tight as he begins to fuck you with deep, bruising thrusts; on the fifth stroke, you shatter for him with a scream. Your core convulses around his girth, the dam to breaking and you bleed out your dignity with a slow, shamefully throbbing euphoria.

_"Look at me."_

You are only distantly aware of his savage growl. There is no strength in your body as he yanks your head back, forcing your wild gaze to meet his.

He jolts hard as the first gush of dreamy warmth erupts from him when he begins to fountain inside of you, filling you to the brim until opulent streams overflow from where you are joined.

"Oh, _Gods_..." A fresh wave of unanticipated ecstasy begins to spread within you, like earth warming in the light of a golden dawn.

The visceral pulse of his cock pumps like a beating heart as he fills you with his seed. Scarlet rapture blooms brightly behind your eyelids and your cries echo across the Seventh Floor as you contract on his length.

With a throaty groan, Demiurge sinks in as deeply as possible. Your hands seem to move of their own accord to grip him tightly, and your thighs cinch around his waist. And then you are floating... drifting from this plane to soar into an abyss of gilded ecstasy.

"Master..." You absently gasp, clinging to him because he is the only thing anchoring you to reality.

"Good girl, take all that I give you..." He commands as empties himself into your channel, and you moan with every hearty throb. His spend is so hot, so thick, it feels as if you are being injected with molten gold.

A strangled whine is pulled from your throat when the pressure of his shaft eases from you, leaving you excruciatingly empty. Your sheath aches with aftershocks as the warm wet flood of his release spills forth, streaming in milky trails down your inner thighs.

The Devil pushes himself to his feet, and you watch as he tucks himself away and straightens his suit.

Your eyes flutter, unwilling to cooperate in keeping fixated on the greatest threat in the room.

"Get up." He snips callously, and you surrender to his order as you find yourself in an odd state of unquestioning compliance.

But after being so thoroughly ravished, your legs are boneless and buckle beneath you, so you only manage to stumble, then collapse onto all fours.

Demiurge lets out an exasperated scoff before scooping you up and slinging you over his shoulder like baggage.

As he carries you to your room, it feels as though you are staying still while the world around you is rushing by. The firelight of the torches burn like the sun, causing your vision to swim with glowing red patterns, absent of shape or design, and births a host of shadows that dance and jump along the walls. You allow your eyes to drift closed. Your arms hang like limp noodles as they dangle over the Devil's back, but a small bit of awareness flickers, barely breaching the surface of oblivion's haze.

Gods, you feel _good_ , as if your blood has been replaced with sunshine. You wonder if this is what a full dose of morphine feels like. When in the brothel, the barrel of the needle they used on you was only ever a quarter loaded.

But Demiurge never gave you anything. So why does this keep happening?

Why do you feel so... high?

* * *

_NOTEWORTHY AUTHORS_!

As the title states, I’ll be recommending Overlord authors in the fandom within the notes of my chapters, and would like to include a drawing of OCs as well to help promote their stories. ♥ ♥ ♥

Today, I'd like to recommend [Gaming On a Whole New Level](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996361/chapters/52490482) by Breathing_Blue_Stars!

This fic is unlike any I've seen within the fandom. It's a Choose Your Own Adventure story!

Summary: For twelve years, the virtual world of Yggdrasil has served as a career and battlefield for a faceless entity, Sōsaku-sha. But now, with the game shutting down permanently, Sōsaku-sha logs in one last time to reminisce and watch the servers fade into darkness. Something odd occurs-and suddenly, fantasy is a reality! Join the interactive tale of the creator of Yggdrasil and create your own adventure in this new world of Overlord!

Below is a painting of Sōsaku-sha!

[ ](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/85fdbfa6-7494-4317-9b3a-6bd2d22cfbca/dec855z-12cf07db-1426-4073-8259-f70109d701f6.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOiIsImlzcyI6InVybjphcHA6Iiwib2JqIjpbW3sicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvODVmZGJmYTYtNzQ5NC00MzE3LTliM2EtNmJkMmQyMmNmYmNhXC9kZWM4NTV6LTEyY2YwN2RiLTE0MjYtNDA3My04MjU5LWY3MDEwOWQ3MDFmNi5qcGcifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6ZmlsZS5kb3dubG9hZCJdfQ.Ad5llfiGX6eX3Iia7IgyRZ1Kf9CktImKF5MPcpZLr5I)


	20. Betrayal

_Demiurge rounds the corner to his Pet's room and deposits her onto the bed, watching her eyelids flutter as she fails to stay awake._

_If the Devil did not have concerns that Greed would find her irresistible, smelling of sex and in a state of utmost fragility, he would have simply abandoned her where she had dropped._

_He then straightens his posture and takes a moment to admire his handiwork. She looks utterly debauched- her tresses spill wildly over her pillows in golden waves which remind him of the rivers of molten lava that flow through the ruins of the Burning Temple, and her cheeks are still alight with a blushing rose glow. Her clothing is in scuffed disarray and his milky seed trickles in a steady stream from between her open thighs. She lies pliant as a newborn lamb, and just as breakable.  
_

_Demiurge licks his lips, and entertains the idea of washing her;_ _parting her legs, the demon languorously kneels at the foot of the bed and slides in between them, lifting her shapely calves to rest them over his shoulders._

_He begins to lave at her slit, sweeping away the pearly mixture of their release.  
_

_A low rumbling purr rolls through his chest as he grooms her clean with long, soft strokes. She tastes of lilies and peaches with some bright citrus, scorched with his own dark, woodsy spice and musk. It is intoxicating, and his tongue delves into her folds to steal more. She groans and shifts before him, but her face is serene in her unconscious state.  
_

_Then he smiles- all fangs, in black-hearted delight. Any strength that may have fueled her escape has been drained from her after what he had subjected her to, and no amount of fear-charged adrenaline could buoy her as exhaustion ushers her into a dreamless sleep._

_It is a sight that pleases him to no end- she had taken him so hard that he was sure her body would retain the shape of his shaft._

_The Devil honestly had not expected to release such an impressive... **volume** after having done so just the night before, but her young and supple body managed to wring him dry, so it is no wonder she cannot even stand._

_The natural sedative found in Incubus semen tranquilizes both his own race as well as mortals; the effects mirror an opiate in how it subdues a potential mate with both euphoria and drowsiness, and is just as addictive. Due to a low fertility rate, its purpose is to lull the bred into a sense of relaxation and security after rutting, which increases the chances of a second coupling and the odds of offspring. However, humans and Incubi cannot produce viable embryos, so he need not worry about the risk of pregnancy._

_A powerful wave of satisfaction rolls through his being at the knowledge that she will become addicted to him soon enough, making it all the easier to shape her into his ideal Pet._

_And as much as she infuriates him, this little female is special- his Creator would not have chosen her otherwise. She maintains an ironclad will to overcome any and all adversity that is hurled into her path. She is a survivor- her life has been defined by a series of sink-or-swim moments, and each one molds the clay of her being. Not to mention she presents the opportunity for an in-depth analysis on how the human psyche adapts to traumatic events._

_Demiurge takes a deep, steadying breath- he is still livid, but after a vicious fucking and ingesting a minuscule dose, his ire has been reduced from a raging boil to a bubbling simmer. While he is still tempted to disembowel her for vandalism and attempted theft, she is far too valuable a specimen for him to rip her open for a precious few moments of sadistic satisfaction._

_There are so many potential experiments he can perform on her..._

_And now, in his possession, nothing stands between her and him but her psychological armor- which he is taking great pleasure in dismantling, piece by piece._

_Spinning sharply on his heel, he leaves her to sleep it off and storms to the Ninth Floor._

_There are only two people within Nazarick who harbor such a fondness for humans that they would willingly defy his claim to his Lord's former Pet, and Demiurge did not smell the Butler on her._

* * *

"Am I to understand that it was your intention to assist in her escape?" Demiurge hisses. The Devil maintains a flawless mask of resolve, save for his nostrils flaring with barely-leashed animosity.

"Yes, my Lord." Pestonya replies, nonplussed.

The Seventh Floor Guardian stands facing the head maid in the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back. While he maintains a non-threatening posture, the way in which his tail whips sharply behind him is a testament to his true demeanor.

 _He is livid beyond belief._

Pestonya is his comrade... how could she do this to him? And how long has she been helping those indentured to Nazarick's service escape?

"Why?" Demiurge's voice grows quiet, and his gaze narrows.

Accompanying his contemplative silence is a suffocating swarm of menace that thickens the air. His acute hearing detects the susurration of fur prickling against linen as Pestonya's hackles rise in response to the growing sense of danger. She doesn't outwardly show it, but Demiurge can smell it- the sharp tang of fear. 

The head maid recognizes that this is when he is at his most deadly; when he is thinking. As a tactician, his mind is his most lethal weapon.

"While I am well aware that you harbor a certain... _benevolence_ for humans," He practically sneers, as though the word leaves an unsavory taste in his mouth. "to my knowledge, never have you dared to go so far as to help a personal servant abscond from Nazarick. So, I ask you- why this one?"

Demiurge knows what her reasons are- but he wants to determine just how much the head maid knows about his Creator's former Pet.

"Because she is no mere human, my Lord. She..." Pestonya gleans for the right words, before finally letting out a weary sigh. "I could smell her on _him_ nearly every day. Did you think I would not recognize that she was Lord Ulb-"

 _Too much_. She knows too much.

"And in light of his absence, she now belongs to me." Demiurge's voice suddenly grows tight and edged with possession. "If you could not scent what my Lord was doing with her in the Burning Temple, I highly recommend you have your sense of smell examined. What I require of her is nothing new, nor is she being treated any worse than when she was when in my Creator's possession. Believe me- I was privileged in bearing witness to their..." A sly grin creeps over his features, and his tongue glides down the length of his canine _. "activities."_

"My Lord, with all due respect, she wasn't merely his pet, she was his-"

"What she _was_ matters not." Demiurge snips, and the muscles beneath his suit coil with severe tension. "What does matter is that you have betrayed me in your attempt to rob me of what is rightfully mine."

"Indeed, I have." Pestonya admits, remorse utterly lacking in her voice, as she is resolute in her belief she has done no wrong.

"You are aware that all of my Creator's property, save for what Lord Ainz has claimed, has been bequeathed to my brother and I. Need I remind you that Lord Ainz himself assigned her to my floor, to serve me?"

"No, Lord Demiurge." The dog-headed maid says simply. "I am perfectly aware."

She admits everything and denies nothing. And somehow, her blatant honesty needles him even more.

"She damaged Malphas' parting gift to me- she ripped the sapphire clean out." Demiurge glowers at the floor, his lip curling to bare his fangs in a wolfish snarl. The demon's back crests with a deep inhale, and then he shoots her a scathing glance. "Was that _your_ brilliant idea or hers?"

Pestonya lightly shakes her head. "I apologize on her behalf- I never told her to do anything of the sort."

Seeing as to how the Devil is an expert in interrogation and can literally smell a lie, Pestonya doesn't bother trying to deceive him. "She was explicitly instructed to neither say nor do anything that may raise suspicions."

Demiurge barks a dry laugh. "Well, unfortunately for you both, she failed to follow even the simplest of instructions."

"Now... what to do with you?" The Seventh Floor Guardian flashes her a lethal smile, then idly taps a claw on the polished surface of the granite island. "Shadow demon,"

The living void plummets like a black star from the ceiling and materializes at the Devil's feet, awaiting his Master's command.

"...inform Lord Ainz of Pestonya's betrayal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy authors will return shortly! :3


	21. Freedom's Fortress

You burst through the trees at the edge of the meadow, while your feral friends come to a grinding halt.

Glancing back, you see the pride of Midgardian Mountain Lions slam on the brakes, watching with apprehension as their king strays from them to remain at your side. They long to follow but are unable to discard their natural mistrust of wide, open spaces in the glaring bright of day. They stalk the perimeter of the forest's border, brushing their lightly spotted, fawn coats against one another nervously.

Restrained by no such qualms, you grin as you race through the wild grasses that part like a green sea, your buckskin wrap hiking up over your thighs with each stride. The sun warms your face as you run, and you drink in the sweet air of the untainted wilderness like liquid laughter.

This is what freedom tastes like, and it is the sole reason you love Yggdrasil. Unlike with most players, fighting in the name of a crown or gathering riches means nothing to you. No, you play to be the wild child that you truly are.

You've longed to find something so perfect, where you can be truly untethered by earthly bounds. Here, you've found freedom's fortress; meadows lit by flowers and crystal cascades, majestic mountains and wide open skies that catch fire at sunrise, and glitter with stars like spilled diamonds at nightfall.

Yggdrasil is a reminiscent echo of the natural beauty that Earth once held, before war and economic collapse crippled society into little more than a dystopian wasteland.

If you didn't have to work, eat and sleep once in a while to simply stay alive, you would trade everything away to live here among the trees and the tall, tall grass.

Only your favorite lion with the charcoal gray coat dares to follow you into the meadow, and while he is indeed bigger and braver than the others, he remains cautious, keeping his ears flat and his tail low.

Over a period of three months, you earned his trust by tossing him scraps of meat from your kills. Here, your wild heart thrives as you live off the land and its natural resources. It is frighteningly easy to forget that everything here, save for other players, are but complex code when you can feel individual blades of grass beneath your feet and the warmth of the Mountain Lion's fur beneath your fingers. Hell, you can even smell the smoke of your campfire that has soaked into your clothes.

No matter how often you remind yourself that this is merely a game, you no longer see the lions as ones and zeroes- you have given them names, learned their body language and studied their hierarchy. They interact with one another much like a pride of African lions, but also display wolf-like behavioral characteristics. The one with the dark fur you believe to be the alpha or king of the pride because as soon as he lost his fear of you, the rest of the cats followed his example.

His head reaches as high as your hip and his paws are the size of dinner plates. He is two hundred pounds of solid muscle and you've watched him bring down a Meadow Elk single-handedly with a suffocation bite to the throat. A well-aimed swat from him could likely break your neck, but you trust that he won't. The king lion stalks next to you and brushes his cheek over your thigh, asking for a head scratch. You oblige and he rumbles with a purr.

These creatures are among your favorites in Yggdrasil. They are highly intelligent, and both protective and affectionate towards the members of their group, and you are no exception- Umbra's tongue scrapes over the back of your hand in a rough lick.

It is mid spring, and wildflowers dapple the marvelous expanse of green with scarlet, magenta and canary yellow. Swiveling back toward the forest's edge, you watch the rest of the pride pace anxiously in their hesitation to leave the safety of shadow. They are primarily nocturnal, hiding from man under the cover of night.

"Guys, come on…" You try coax the pensive felines out. "There is no one around here for miles!"

Seeing that they are not to be swayed, you give up, turning your back and darting over the crest of a low hill. You are searching for flint boulders to craft a new spear; the head of your last one cracked on the skull of a Helheim Hartebeest, a straggler of their great migration.

A cool burst of cornflower blue catches your eye, a chill of ice among a field of fire. You charge towards it, wading through the thick Bermuda-like grasses to examine the unique bloom. Kneeling before it, your eyes widen.

It is blue with a center that glitters as though composed of crystal, its petals thin and curled, akin to those of a spider lily, but the likes of which you have never laid eyes on.

Utterly entranced, you reach for it, folding your hands beneath its delicate crown, cupping it gently like a fragile little bird.

Thunder rolls in the distance, reverberating through your bones. Glancing up, you find the sky to be cloudless.

 _'Odd.'_ You don't smell the mineral scent of moisture in the air either, and you look to the lion, whose ears prick forward.

The ominous rumble deepens, but nothing strikes you as being amiss until the earth begins to tremble beneath your bare feet, and Umbra growls. Your heart plummets as you rise to your feet, whirling on your heel to behold an exquisite covered chariot drawn by four horses crawling over the hill.

Your breath hitches at the frightfully majestic sight; the ornate vehicle appears to be crafted from varnished cherry wood and is trimmed with gold. The early noon sun glares off it, scattering blinding darts of light across your vision.

The Lion's face wrinkles into a vicious snarl, and with a hair-raising roar it summons the rest of the pride. You were sure the equines would spook at the thunderous cry, but they did not so much as flinch.

Your mind blanks in shock. In the distance you can hear the bellows of the pride as they rush to their king's aid from the forest's edge, forgoing their fear of the open while you remain bolted to the ground, paralyzed by disbelief.

This area is so deep in the wilderness that you only see other players once in a blue moon, and typically because they are either lost or hunting- when these newcomers tread through your territory, you hide amongst the brush or in the trees to ensure you're never seen. If you are lucky, they camp for the night and you jack a few supplies when they doze off. But _never_ have you been without your spear when one rolls through. And now, with a broken weapon, you have no means to defend yourself save for the lions' protection.

The stranger drives their chariot within perilous proximity, guiding the beasts mere inches from your frozen form. Time slows to a delirious crawl and the earth churns with the beats of their hooves as they come to a halt. The equines stomp in place, foaming at the mouth as they champ at the bit.

At no less than eighteen hands high at the withers, they are the biggest horses you have ever laid eyes on. Their necks and hindquarters are armored, and between the plated segments of polished silver their coats reflect a luxurious gleam like black satin.

They snort and shake their manes, and your stomach flips as you notice the wicked silvery horns are not a part of ornate chanfrons, but are actually sprouting from their skulls to curve around their heads in elegant arcs.

 _Bicorns._ You have only read about such beasts of legend, but have yet to see one; they are the equine of choice for battle purposes and are typically chosen by heteromorphs, and here an entire team of them stand before you.

The door to the coach suddenly swings open, and the driver ducks to step out and unfolds, rising to his full height.

 _'Holy shit.'_ You've never seen anyone so tall or massive. He is easily six and a half feet tall, with mile wide shoulders and a chest as broad as a refrigerator.

He is cloaked in a black, double-breasted military style trench coat and a horned, porcelain mask conceals his face. His ears are inhuman- long, pointed and adorned with golden rings and cuffs. They jut out from straight black hair that ends just above his shoulder blades. The heavy boots on his feet look as though they were made for crushing skulls.

Man, you are _so fucked_ if this guy decides he wants a piece of you.

The Mountain Lion at your side chuffs, and then slowly backs up with his yellow, saber-like fangs bared. You watch from your peripheral as Umbra circles broadly, and you don't dismiss the possibility that if things go south, he may bolt.

The pride also keeps their distance until Umbra chooses to lead an attack, but they remain intently fixated on the giant who towers over you. If they are afraid of him, you should be nothing short of terrified.

The stranger takes a slow step forward, and you take a cautious step back.

A sweep of silver skirting along the hem of his cloak draws your attention. A steely, arrow-shaped head edged with spikes sways to and fro; a tail.

He is of the Demon or Devil class.

"I admit, I am surprised to see a human here in the heart of the wilderness. My apologies for startling you and your friend, but I have been searching all over for this particular bloom; I require it to manufacture a medicine for my mare. Have you already laid claim to it?" His voice is smooth, deep and dark, like black velvet.

Tongue-numbing shock renders you mute, and stare up at him dumbly before adrenaline finally flips your brain back on.

"Um... n-no. No, I haven't." You stammer, admittedly taken aback by his polite demeanor.

The giant tilts his head slightly. "Hmm. I witnessed you examining it as I crested the hill, so I fear you are only allowing me to have my way due to our power imbalance. So, I ask that you allow me to at least pay you its value in coin." The giant slips a hand into his cloak and you tense on the chance that he is reaching for a weapon, but he instead produces a red velvet pouch with a braided yellow drawstring. He extends his arm to pass it to you, and your fingers flex at your side as you hesitate.

Demons are infamous for their trickery. But damn, can you really pass up some free coin when you lack a weapon? What's more, the opportunity to arm yourself with something more efficient than a spear?

"It's alright, I promise I will not bite." He assures, and you can hear what sounds to be a smile in his voice.

Slowly, you extend your arm with a thick swallow, and allow him to drop the pouch into your hand. The weight of the bag as it plops into your palm is shocking- just how much money did he give you?

A furtive glance at the partially drawn mouth of the bag reveals a glitter of not copper, nor silver, but _gold_.

_'OH. Oh, damn! That must be one rare flower.'_

As he withdraws, you notice each finger of his leather-clad hand ends in curved talons, and they utterly dwarf your own.

He could snap you like a twig, and all too easily.

"If I may make a suggestion, you should consider arming yourself. Bandits are known to rove these woods and are quite merciless." The demon cautions.

"Uh... I - I'm kind of new here. I had crafted a spear, but it broke after a while." You sheepishly admit and run a hand through your hair. "What kind of weapon do you think would be best for both offense and defense?"

Umbra creeps closer towards him with nostrils flaring and eyes wide. While his body language speaks volumes of distrust, he is no longer growling.

"A spear, while good for hunting prey, does not put enough distance between you and an enemy. Something light and with range would be more preferable. I believe a bow, throwing knives or shuriken would be ideal for your situation." He advises and then bends at the waist to pluck the flower from the earth.

His advice seems sound, and with a gilded chariot and coin like this to burn, he must be exceptionally skilled.

"Okay, thank you! Can you tell me where I can purchase something?"

You watch with apprehensive interest as the demon reaches into his coat and pulls out an oblong specimen container from an internal pocket.

"The nearest village with a blacksmith is a little over two hour's ride South." He replies as he slides the flower into the glass tube and then corks it.

_Damn it._

"I take it you have no steed?"

You hang your head with a weary sigh. "No."

"If you would like, I can at least take you there. The journey alone would be perilous without a means of defense, even with your friends at your side." The stranger cautions.

The fact that he does not refer to them as beasts or lions, but your friends gives you an odd sense of comfort. It is as though he understands they are not mere code or animals to you.

Perhaps you can trust him. If he came here with ill intentions, he could have simply snapped your neck, taken the flower and gone about his merry way.

But he didn't.

However, his mask makes you uneasy, and still begs the question... _what or why is he hiding?_

You silence as you weigh the risks of accompanying him does not go unnoticed.

"However, I understand if you do not trust me; you have little reason to. So, if you would prefer, I will supply you with a low-grade weapon so you may safely make it to the village."

"Okay. That would be great, actually." This offer you feel far safer accepting. "Do you have throwing knives?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy authors will return shortly! :3


	22. Thief

"Bring that back!" The goat demon roars.

Charging through the trees, branches whip at your face and scratch over your arms, leaving stinging welts.

You had hoped to lose him in the forest, but to your surprise, he stays hot on your heels; neither the uneven terrain nor the dense foliage slows him down.

He's faster and nimbler than he looks, and you can feel the vibration of his cloven hooves thundering over the earth through the balls of your bare feet.

You nearly trip freeing a throwing knife from the holster strapped to your thigh and pitch it behind you. A peacock tail of golden sparks bursts through the air as he swats it from its trajectory with a hand armed with gleaming, golden scythes.

Frozen filet of fuck, he could gut you like a fish with those. And here in the woods, they hack through the timber like freshly-sharpened machetes. He holds every advantage and all you have on your side is the ten paces between you and the furious Baphomet.

This wasn't your brightest idea- it is but one of many half-cocked plans for a big score, if you were being honest. But the tip you followed up on was good; grand, in fact. You managed to swipe an extremely valuable Item off of this guy when his guard was down.

Needless to say, the theft did not go unnoticed and he was on your ass immediately.

The demon tailing you is a heteromorph, and judging by the unlockable steampunk mask, the cape of crushed velvet and weaponized gloves literally worth your weight in gold, he is a much higher level than you. As a mere human thief, you were both outclassed and outmuscled; but the Item he possessed was too great a temptation for you to pass up.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes, so you have to at least try, right?

You clear a drying creek bed, and grimace as sharp stones along the bank bite into your bare toes on impact. Shoes are a luxury you have yet to afford. The money the demon had given you for the flower a few months ago presented a choice between light abdominal armor or high-grade foot protection, and after being grazed by an arrow last month, it was no contest. While the black and scarlet banded mail stands no chance against _him_ , it's better than nothing.

Not to mention the throwing knives he provided you with are a godsend. They are much more accurate than a spear, and more lightweight. They allowed you to truly hone your class skills as a thief.

**{River of Hellfire!}**

The earth trembles and veins with cracks which then split into a gaping maw no less than five yards ahead of you. A tide of magma spews forth, turning your path into an impenetrable river of fire. You slam on the brakes and try to gasp but the wave of heat it radiates steals the breath from your lungs and sucks all of the oxygen out of the air.

His cataclysmic power has you momentarily frozen in awe; an attack of this magnitude means he is more than a simple player- he must be of the Adamantite class or perhaps a high-ranking Guild member.

_Fuck_. You've definitely bitten off more than you can chew.

If you make it out of this alive, you expect no less than multiple broken bones and third-degree burns.

Your brain finally flips back on and you leap straight up to grapple the nearest tree branch in hopes that he isn't as arboreally adept as you. As you begin to haul yourself up out of his reach, gilded claws slice through the barrel-thick limb like paper, sending your heart plummeting to the earth with it.

"Ow!" You crash atop of hard horns and your fingers hook into the velvet of his cape as you tumble over him- both the demon and you collapse in a tangled heap of thrashing limbs.

_"Cerberus' bloody knot!"_ You both snarl in unison. His eye of molten gold locks with yours, and a moment of buttery-thick tension passes before laughter erupts between you.

There is only one player besides yourself who spouts such obscene curses.

"Wait... do you know Pero?" He smiles, flashing a muzzle full of ivory fangs.

"The perverted peacock? Yes, I do." You laugh, and when he snorts in return you breathe a sigh of relief as some of the ice in his veins thaws.

You and Pero, short for Peroroncino, had met a few months ago in a local tavern, and you drink with him every weekend. Your friendship with the Avian heteromorph bloomed instantaneously- mainly because you both share a twisted sense of humor. Getting drunk with him and trading stories quickly became a favorite past time.

"Well, this is... awkward. I met up with him last night at the tavern and he told me there was a grey goat carrying a World Item, and he dared me to take him- well, you, on." You admit, and carefully crawl backwards so you don't knee him in the groin by accident.

The heteromorph lets out a sigh of exasperation, and his jaw clenches as he wriggles out from under you, and your lungs can once again fully expand now that his knee is no longer digging into your stomach. "I'm going to set him on fire. I suppose he thought this would be... amusing?"

"Well... it _sort of_ is?" Chuckling, you shuffle further backwards to let him up. Next to your hand lies his black beau hat, which you pick up and brush off. There's a steampunk clock rimmed in white gold affixed to the red band framing its circumference, and you buff its face with the tail of your buckskin wrap before passing it to him. "But he's an ass for setting us up like this. Someone could have gotten hurt."

"Indeed, someone could have." He agrees, and secures his hat between his wickedly curved horns.

He is being polite- if anyone would have been hurt here, it definitely would have been you. The chances of you even scuffing him are zero to none.

He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt, and your eyes furtively travel up his digitigrade legs as he rises to his full height, up to his narrow waist. Your gaze lingers on how the material of his double-placket shirt stretches across the impressive breadth of his chest, putting a visible strain on the silver buttons that are aligned to the far right.

He is built like an ox, and he towers over you. Not to mention his caprine features are alluringly gruff.

"Are you alright?" The goat demon asks as he dusts himself off. For the first time, you notice a large, red rose pinned to his shoulder. You wonder if it bears some sort of symbolism. Maybe he's a romantic of sorts?

"Y-yes, thank you." The heat of a blush creeps up your neck.

"I'm Ulbert. Ulbert Alain Odle." He introduces himself, and extends his forearm to help you up.

You tell him your name and take his arm, secretly admiring the muscle tone tensing beneath your fingers and the deadly blades arming his hand as he gently pulls you to your feet.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," He says with a courteous bow at the waist, and your name rolls off his tongue like quicksilver, so sinfully smooth.

_Okay._ He's actually a nice guy and ridiculously attractive in a deadly, suave, Satanic Goat way. Which isn't fair, because you really wanted to keep this item and now you will feel like a bastard if you don't return it to him.

You may be a thief, but you aren't a total jerk.

After you regain steady footing, your hand dives into your cleavage for the Item you tucked away, and his brassy eye widens to comical proportions.

"Well? Where else could I put it?" Laughing, you pull the dagger free and hand it over to the dumbstruck demon. Welded to the handle are two fang-baring serpents of remarkable craftsmanship coiling around an inverted pentacle of pure silver. Pea-sized rubies crown each of the star's five points. Carved into the blade are ancient runes in the Fallen One's tongue which you think translates to _'Dagon'._

"A thief can't carry a bag. We have to stay light on our feet in case we get caught in the act."

This wasn't completely true. You have no bag because literally everything in your inventory is on your person. To say you live... _minimally_ in the game, as well as in real life is an understatement. And the reason for that is because you really aren't very good at Yggdrasil. All of your Experience Points have been gained by hunting or gathering, and killing a handful of enemies in self-defense.

You weren't much of a gamer- you only have the dive gear because you inherited it after your sister went off to college in hopes of building a better life and would have no time to play. But that isn't to say you don't enjoy the escapism it provides. It allows you to be the wild child at heart that you truly are.

"Fair enough," Ulbert grins, and tucks the blade into his belt. "and thank you for giving it back, as I'm rather attached to this one. I must admit, no one has been daring enough to steal anything from me before."

"No one has been crazy enough, you mean." You counter with a cock of your head, and he chortles. "But seriously, I'm sorry for swiping it. I wouldn't have targeted you if I knew you were a part of Pero's guild."

"No offense taken- it isn't your fault that he conveniently left out that vital piece of information when he sent you on a suicide mission."

"Right? But... why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?" You couldn't help but ask. He had every opportunity to stop you dead in your tracks, but he didn't.

"I may look like the Devil, but I'm not a heartless monster." He says with a shrug. "You only have light armor, no shoes, no horse and are stealing from players that are 70 levels your elder. You aren't stealing because you want to, but because you _have_ to."

Damn. He is perceptive as all Hell.

"I take it the other players haven't been so kind, nor observant?" He surmises, and you sheepishly nod.

"Yeah... they, uh... tend to shoot first, and ask questions never. Pero was one of the first to show me a shred of decency."

Ulbert crosses his arms and casually leans against the trunk of the tree. "Then perhaps you will allow me to as well? Feel free to decline if this seems a bit too forward, but I would very much like to buy you a drink to bury the hatchet."

The flush of your neck rushes to your face to light your cheeks on fire.

_Oh._ Oh, gods. Is he seriously asking you out?

You favor him with a coy smile, then shyly tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. "I... I think I'd like that, actually."

His nostrils then flare like a predator who has caught the scent of blood on the wind, and your heart flutters with a forbidden thrill.

It looks like Pero _was_ setting you up... in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy authors will return shortly! :3


	23. Miss Midgard

"You could have gotten her killed, you know." Ulbert chides his guild mate before sliding off his bladed glove so he can safely cradle the delicate shot glass which bears a relief of the guild symbol of Nine's Own Goal.

"You wouldn't have hurt her. She's too pretty!" Pero waves him off. "And don't you dare tell me she isn't your type. She has a collection of animal skulls and can adequately translate the Fallen One's tongue. Surely that is something _you_ of all people can appreciate, Dr. Evil."

The Goat of Great Disaster snorts with a light shake of his head.

"I never said she wasn't my type. But I do think you need to use more caution when playing matchmaker. You know she was only wearing light armor and no shoes?" Ulbert points out. "My mildest attack wouldn't have simply scorched her- it would have _incinerated_ her."

"Duh! That's why you should be her sugar daddy; buy her some heels and something that can withstand some real damage." Pero suggests and holds out his glass so Sous chef can pour him another shot of blood wine.

It is nearly midnight, and Ulbert and Peroroncino have reserved the bar for an hour so they can privately discuss the reasoning behind Pero's little stunt.

"Do I _look_ like a sugar Daddy?"

"You're telling me that _isn't_ the steampunk version of a pimp hat?" Pero deadpans, nodding to Ulbert's beau, and Ulbert face-palms, yet is helpless to stop himself from grinning. "Come on. If she agreed to have a drink with you, she likes you. Hell, _I like her._ If she wasn't so damned perfect for you, I would have asked her out myself."

"What do I do if she doesn't want to be my girlfriend and she only accepted my invitation because she was being polite?" Ulbert cannot help but to mull over the worst-case scenario. He is inherently pessimistic when it comes to romantic relationships, in real life or otherwise. Ulbert was deemed 'the quiet weird kid' in high school, and girls avoided him like the plague. Only a handful of times did he get lucky and manage to land a date, but not once was he given a second chance.

"Ulbert- she _prefers_ heteromorphs. I know that for a fact. Oh, the conversations we've had..." Pero snickers and perilously leans back in his bar chair with a suggestive quirk of his brow. Ulbert simply rolls his eyes, as he can only imagine what filthy things the Avian heteromorph must have uttered to her. "Trust me, she's into you."

"I suppose we'll see, then." Ulbert deflects and sips his drink, which rings clear as a bell over his tongue with the coppery-sweet finish of blood.

Pero tosses back his next shot and rights his chair. "If our guild didn't allow only heteromorphs, I'd invite her to join us. But I don't think Momonga would be too keen on it."

"Unfortunately, you are probably right. But I would still like to show her my portion of the Tomb." Ulbert says, then sweeps the crimson tint staining his fangs away with his tongue and drums his talons on the table.

Pero cocks his head in his bird-like fashion, contemplating, and the dim lighting of the bar reflects neon purple and electric blue over the Avian's golden mask. "You could always portal into the Burning Temple. If she hasn't seen the rest of the Tomb or even the outside of it, it doesn't really pose much of a security risk. She's like, what? A level 30 human? It would be about as dangerous as letting in a kitten."

"You would not tell Momonga about her?"

"No. As long as you don't tell him about my stash of mags that I hid in the Treasury."

"As I told you once already, I would prefer to pretend I never stumbled upon "Jewels and Jugs." It still blows Ulbert's mind that Pero possesses magazines for such purposes in the digital age.

"At least Pandora's Actor has some reading material now." Pero shrugs, then ruffles his pearly feathers. "The articles are great."

* * *

Pandora's actor lounges upon a mountain of assorted gold that shimmers and winks like a galaxy's trove of glittering stars. Flawless in their dexterity, his spindly fingers flip and then catch an embossed coin, minted in the Royal Capital. He takes a moment to examine it; the bust of what he believes to be a war horse with a shortly-cropped mane on its surface glares back at him. A laurel wreath frames a phrase below its muscular neck which is written in a language he is not familiar with.

 _'So serious!'_ He wonders who the money's designer was, and why they did not choose something more grand to represent their region. A fierce lion! The blaring sun! So many options, and yet they settled upon a pouty pony? How disappointing.

Still, despite its decorative shortcomings, the Greater Doppelganger has taken great care to shine this fine specimen of craftsmanship and polish each groove to its former glory, so it may be fit to join the rest of his processed currency.

Only the height of perfection may be presented to Lord Momonga for use- anything less is unworthy- _nein,_ an insult.

He hopes his Creator will come visit him again soon; it feels as though it has been ages since he was last graced by his Lord's presence. The Treasury is his home, his kingdom, and while there is nowhere else he would rather be, there are times in which its solitude inevitably gnaws at him.

Until then, he is a soldier awaiting his Kommandant's orders.

With another toss, he allows the coin to fall, and watches as it lands perfectly on its rim and rolls, bounces, then rolls again down the hoard of treasure, making a beeline for a jewel-encrusted chest, crafted from varnished red oak. It circles, round and round, before falling onto its face.

"Ah, ein wanderer!" He calls out to it. "Is this where you wish to be?"

Pandora's Actor rises and then surfs down the mountain of gold, his shiny black military boots sending coins flying from his heels like sparks. He lands on his feet and straightens his uniform, then strides to the trunk.

The Greater Doppelganger crouches, settling onto his haunches before picking up the coin in one hand and flicking open the brass latches to the lid with the other.

"Oh?" The coins and bars of raw platinum within have been arranged to one side to make room for what appears to be a stack of glossy-covered booklets. "What is this?"

They are unlike anything he has ever seen. The covers are shiny and quite flimsy compared to the leather-bound volumes lining the shelves of Ashurbanipal. Out of curiosity, he lifts one out to examine the title.

 _ **"JEWELS AND JUGS"**_ is spelled out in slashing red letters across a black background of scattered rubies, diamonds and emeralds.

Ah, it must be about precious stones and vessels of containment! What an odd combination of subjects for reading!

With his interest piqued, Pandora's Actor turns the cover to the first page, and sees ... _Oh._

_"Wie schön!"_

It is like a painting- but so much _clearer;_ he can count her dusting of freckles, and see, or sense, rather, the softness of each lock of hair. A vision on paper, if anything, he would say.

This must be some form of magic, one of which only the Supreme Ones could hope to achieve!

He beholds a lovely sky-clad lady, who is most tastefully posed- she kneels upon a shield bearing what appears to be a platinum oak tree relief. Multiple strands of black and purple pearls strategically draped around her neck hide her... _ahem_ , more scandalous features as she glances back at him.

His heart skips a beat within his chest as he seemingly locks eyes with her. She is somehow real, and yet she is not. It is as though he holds in his hands a moment frozen in time.

How remarkable!

Pandora's Actor drinks her in; small horns jut from her wild mane of rose red and winterberry blue curls which freely tumble down her back in a dazzling array of color, and her eyes are that of a serpent's- poisonous green with chartreuse flecks and piercing vertical pupils, but there is a whimsical gleam in them that tells him she wears her heart on her proverbial sleeve.

His hollow eyes trace the graceful line of the curvature of her spine as it extends into a long, reptilian tail which curls around her shapely rear.

Blue scales decorate her soft features in a pleasingly asymmetrical pattern, and her full, pink lips are curved in a salacious and knowing smile.

She is curvy, playful... _stunning._

Below her image, he reads a caption of what he hopes to be her name, _Holly Leonhardt, Miss Midgard._

"Na Hallöchen, Holly, meine blauschuppige Schönheit." He purrs, and loves how her name rolls off of his tongue so fluidly as he gently draws a finger over her cheek.

* * *

A big thank you to Ceresoktavia for translating German for Pandora's Actor for me! 💕

_**Na Hallöchen, Holly, meine blauschuppige Schönheit : Well hello, Holly, my blue-scaled beauty._

_** Wie schön: How lovely!_

Also, I'm sure many of you noticed a familiar face at the end there. ;3 

Just want to say I adore Download077's character Holly so freaking hard that I wanted to write a little tribute piece. 💖💖💖 

Her writing has been a massive inspiration for my own, and to many others within the fandom. And her version of Pandora's Actor? Guys, I literally can't see him any other way now. 😂 It fits like a glove. She breathed so much life into his character with her stories. If you haven't read her fics, I highly recommend you check them out! And yes, I am shamelessly linking my faves here:

[Tales of Artorian - I really love the Yggdrasil gameplay in this one, especially how the reader is trapped not within Nazarick's walls when the game shuts down, but Midgard. She's all alone and has to find her way to Nazarick, and can only hope she isn't the only one lost within the game.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738142/chapters/44447083)

[Child of Jörmungandr -THIS. This beautiful baby right here is what got me really hooked on her Overlord fanfictions. It gives so much love to all the characters, and this is where we first meet Holly!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16873440/chapters/39625050)

[Humanity- I can't even begin to tell you how much I like it. There's so many feelings in this one and she gives a lot of love to Momonga. And I don't mean Lord Ainz, but Momonga the MAN behind the Overlord's mask. She delves into his character like you wouldn't believe.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008588/chapters/55013569)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noteworthy authors will return shortly! :3

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/apocalypticromantic666)  
> [My Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/jaldabaoth666)
> 
> My other stories:
> 
> [Overlord Kinktober! Okay, I know October is nearly over, but who cares? I'll be adding to this anyways. 😂 Because no one complains about better-late-than-never smut.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056608/chapters/66058684)
> 
> [Let Me Serve You, an Ainz/Demiurge fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995411/chapters/57721879)
> 
> [Outcasts, a crossover fic centering around my character Malphas, and Ceresoktavia's character Marlianken. Much softer but just as smutty.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615047/chapters/56671906)
> 
> 💖💖💖 Thank you for your reviews and kudos! You are lovely people. 💖💖💖


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